THE    THREAD    OF    FLAME 


BOOKS  BY 
BASIL    KING 

THE  THREAD  OP  FLAME 

GOING  WEST 

THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

ABRAHAM'S   BOSOM 

THE   LIFTED    VEIL 

THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ANGELS 

THE  LETTER  OF  THE  CONTRACT 

THE  WAY  HOME 

THE  WILD  OLIVE 

THE  INNER  SHRINE 

THE  STREET  CALLED  STRAIGHT 

LET  NO  MAN  PUT  ASUNDER 

IN  THE  GARDEN   OF  CHARITY 

THE  STEPS  OF  HONOR 

THE   HIGH   HEART 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
ESTABLISHED  1817 


'THE 
THREAD    OF    FLAME 

By  BASIL  KING 

Author  of 

"THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES"   "GOING  WEST*' 
"THE    INNER   SHRINE"   ETC. 

Illustrated 


Harper   6§?   Brothers 

Publishers 
New    York    and    London 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 


Copyright,  IQ20,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  August,  1920 

i-u 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Oh,  as  for  cheering  people  up — I  don't  know. 
...  A  woman  wants  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world  to  feel  that  she's  needed; 
and  when  she  discovers  she  isn't — "  .  .  Frontispiece 

She  turned  on  me  with  a  new  flash  in  her  blue 
eyes.  "Look  here!  Tell  me  honest,  now. 
Are  you  a  swell  crook — or  ain't  you?" 
"Suppose  I  say  that — that  I  ain't."  "Say, 
kid!"  she  responded,  coldly,  "talk  like 
yourself,  will  you?  ...  If  you're  not  a 
swell  crook  I  can't  make  you  out"  .  .  .  Facing  p.  120 

All  these  minutes  she  had  been  observing  me, 
with  that  queer,  half-choked  cry  as  the  re 
sult:  "Oh,  Billy,  is  this  you?"  ....  "  242 

I  had  begun  on  collars  and  neckties  when  Vio 
said,  "What  kind  of  a  girl  was  that  who 
was  here  this  afternoon?"  "  298 


PART   I 


THE    THREAD    OF    FLAME 


CHAPTER  I 

WTHOUT  opening  my  eyes  I  guessed  that 
it  must  be  between  five  and  six  in  the 
morning. 

I  was  snuggled  into  something  narrow.  On 
moving  my  knee  abruptly  it  came  into  contact 
with  an  upright  board.  At  the  same  time  the  end 
of  my  bed  rose  upward,  so  that  my  feet  were 
higher  than  my  head.  Then  the  other  end  rose, 
and  my  head  was  higher  than  my  feet.  A  slow, 
gentle  roll  threw  my  knee  once  more  against  the 
board,  though  another  slow,  gentle  roll  swung  me 
back  to  my  former  position.  Far  away  there  was 
a  rhythmic  throbbing,  like  the  beating  of  a  pulse. 
I  knew  I  was  on  shipboard,  and  for  the  moment 
it  was  all  I  knew. 

Not  quite  awake  and  not  quite  asleep,  I  waited 
as  one  waits  in  any  strange  bed,  in  any  strange 
place,  for  the  waking  mind  to  reconnect  itself  with 
the  happenings  overnight.  Sure  of  this  speedy 
re-establishment,  I  dozed  again. 

On  awaking  the  second  time  I  was  still  at  a  loss 
for  the  reason  for  my  being  at  sea.  I  had  left  a  port; 

3 


:-T#E:  -THREAD  OF  FLAME 


I  was  going  to  a  port;  and  I  didn't  know  the  name 
of  either.  I  might  have  been  on  any  ocean,  sailing 
to  any  quarter  of  the  globe.  How  long  I  had  been 
on  the  way,  and  how  far  I  had  still  to  go,  were 
details  that  danced  away  from  me  whenever  I  tried 
to  seize  them.  I  retained  a  knowledge  of  conti 
nents  and  countries;  but  as  soon  as  I  made  the 
attempt  to  see  myself  in  any  of  them  my  mind 
recoiled  from  the  effort  with  a  kind  of  sick  dislike. 

Nothing  but  a  dull  hint  came  to  me  on  actually 
opening  my  eyes.  An  infiltration  of  gray  light 
through  the  door,  which  was  hooked  ajar,  revealed 
a  mere  slit  in  space,  with  every  peg  and  corner 
utilized.  A  quiet  breathing  from  the  berth  above 
my  head  told  me  that  I  shared  the  cabin  with 
some  one  else.  On  the  wall  opposite,  above  a  flat 
red  couch  piled  with  small  articles  of  travel,  two 
complete  sets  of  clothing  swung  outward,  or  from 
side  to  side  like  pendulums,  according  to  the 
movement  of  the  ship. 

I  closed  my  eyes  again.  It  was  clearly  a  cabin 
of  the  cheaper  and  less  comfortable  order,  calling 
up  a  faintly  disagreeable  surprise.  It  was  from 
that  that  I  drew  my  inference.  I  judged  that 
whoever  I  was  I  had  traveled  before,  and  in  more 
luxurious  conditions. 

Through  the  partly  open  door,  beyond  which 
there  must  have  been  an  open  porthole,  came 
puffs  of  salt  wind  and  the  swish  and  roar  of  the 
ocean.  Vainly  I  sought  indications  as  to  the  point 
of  the  compass  toward  which  we  were  headed. 
Imagination  adapted  itself  instantly  to  any  direc- 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

tion  it  was  asked  to  take.  In  this  inside  cabin 
there  was  no  suggestion  from  sun  or  cloud  to  show 
the  difference  between  east  and  west. 

Because  I  was  not  specially  alarmed  I  did  my 
best  to  doze  again.  Dozing  seemed  to  me,  indeed, 
the  wisest  course,  for  the  reason  that  during  the 
freedom  of  subconsciousness  in  sleep  the  missing 
connection  was  the  more  likely  to  be  restored.  It 
would  be  restored  of  course.  I  was  physically 
well.  I  knew  that  by  my  general  sensations. 
Young,  vigorous,  and  with  plenty  of  money,  a 
mere  lapse  of  memory  was  a  joke. 

Of  being  young  and  vigorous  a  touch  on  my 
body  was  enough  to  give  me  the  assurance.  The 
assumption  of  having  plenty  of  money  was  more 
subtle.  It  was  a  habit  of  mind  rather  than  any 
thing  more  convincing.  Certainly  there  was 
nothing  to  prove  it  in  this  cabin,  which  might 
easily  have  been  second-class,  nor  yet  in  the  stuff 
of  my  pajamas,  which  was  thick  and  coarse.  I 
noticed  now,  as  I  turned  in  my  bunk,  that  it 
rasped  my  skin  unpleasantly.  With  no  effort  of 
the  memory  I  could  see  myself  elegantly  clad  in 
silk  night-clothing  fastened  with  silk  frogs;  and 
yet  when  I  asked  myself  when  and  where  that 
had  been  no  answer  was  accorded  me. 

I  may  have  slept  an  hour  when  I  waked  again. 
From  the  sounds  in  the  cabin  I  drew  the  con 
clusion  that  my  overhead  companion  had  got  up. 

Before  looking  at  him  I  tested  my  memory  for 
some  such  recollection  as  men  sharing  the  same 
cabin  have  of  their  first  meeting.  But  I  had  none. 

5 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Farther  back  than  that  waking  between  five  and 
six  o'clock  I  couldn't  think.  It  was  like  trying 
to  think  back  to  the  years  preceding  one's  birth; 
one's  personality  dissolved  into  darkness. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  there  was  a  man  stand 
ing  in  the  dim  gray  light  with  his  back  to  me. 
Broad,  muscular  shoulders  showed  through  the 
undershirt  which  was  all  he  wore  in  addition  to 
his  trousers,  of  which  the  braces  hung  down  the 
back.  The  dark  hair  was  the  hair  of  youth,  and 
in  a  corner  of  the  glass  I  caught  the  reflection  of 
a  chin  which  in  spite  of  the  lather  I  also  knew  to 
be  young.  Waiting  till  he  had  finished  shaving 
and  had  splashed  his  face  in  the  basin,  I  said,  with 
a  questioning  intonation: 

"Hello?" 

Turning  slowly,  he  lowered  the  towel  from  his 
dripping  face,  holding  it  out  like  a  propitiatory 
offering.  He  responded  then  with  the  slow  em 
phasis  of  surprise. 

"Hel-lo,  old  scout!  So  you've  waked  up  at 
last!  Thought  you  meant  to  sleep  the  trip  out." 

"Have  I  been  asleep  long?" 

"Only  since  you  came  on  aboard." 

It  was  on  my  tongue  to  ask,  When  was  that? 
but  a  sudden  prompting  of  discretion  bade  me 
seek  another  way. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  I've  slept  more  than — 
more  than" — I  drew  a  bow  at  a  venture — "more 
than  twenty-four  hours?" 

He  made  the  reckoning  as  he  rubbed  his  shin 
ing  face  with  the  towel. 

6 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Let  me  see!  This  is  Friday.  We  came  on 
board  late  Tuesday  night.  When  John-M'rie, 
our  bedroom  steward,  brought  me  down  to  the 
cabin  about  half  past  nine  you  were  already  in 
your  bunk  doing  the  opium  act.  John-M'rie 
passed  it  up  that  you  were  a  Frenchman,  because 
you'd  spoken  French  to  him;  but  now  I  see  you're 
just  an  American  like  myself." 

So!  I  was  an  American  but  I  could  speak 
French.  I  could  speak  French  sufficiently  well 
for  one  Frenchman  to  mistake  me  for  another. 
I  stowed  this  data  away,  noting  that  if  I  had 
lost  some  of  the  power  of  memory  the  faculty 
of  reasoning  was  unimpaired. 

Weighing  my  questions  so  as  to  get  the  maxi 
mum  of  information  with  the  minimum  of  be 
trayal,  I  waited  before  hazarding  anything  else 
till  he  had  finished  polishing  a  face  which  had 
the  handsome  ugliness  of  a  pug. 

"When  do  you  think,"  was  my  next  diplo 
matic  venture,  "that  we  shall  get  in?" 

"Oh,  hang!"  The  exclamation  was  caused 
by  finding  himself  pawing  at  the  foot  of  my  berth 
in  his  search  for  the  towel-rack.  "Wednesday 
morning  with  good  luck,"  he  went  on,  feeling 
along  the  wall  till  he  touched  a  kind  of  rod,  behind 
which  he  tucked  the  towel.  "With  bad  weather 
we'll  not  pick  up  the  Nantucket  Lightship  before 
Thursday  night.  The  old  bucket's  supposed  to 
do  it  in  eight  days;  but  you  know  what  that 
means  these  times." 

I  didn't  know,  since  these  times  did  not  dis- 
7 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

tinguish  themselves  in  my  mind  from  any  other 
times.  But  the  Nantucket  Lightship  was  a  ref 
erence  I  understood.  We  were  sailing  for  New 
York.  As  an  American  I  was  therefore  on  my 
way  home,  though  no  spot  on  the  continent  put 
forth  a  special  claim  on  me.  I  made  brief  experi 
ments  in  various  directions:  New  York,  Wash 
ington,  Chicago,  San  Francisco,  Boston,  Denver, 
Seattle.  Nothing  responded.  The  hills  of  New 
England,  the  mountains  of  California,  the  levees 
of  Louisiana  were  alike  easy  for  me  to  recall;  but 
I  was  as  detached  from  them  as  a  spirit  from 
another  world. 

These  ideas  floated — I  choose  the  phrase  as 
expressive  of  something  more  nebulous  than 
active  thinking — these  ideas  floated  across  my 
brain  as  I  watched  the  boy  rinse  his  tooth-brush, 
replace  the  tumbler,  and  feel  along  the  wall  for 
the  flannel  shirt  hanging  on  a  peg.  He  turned  to 
me  then  with  the  twinkling,  doggy  look  I  was 
beginning  to  notice  as  a  trait. 

"Say,  you'd  eat  a  whale,  wouldn't  you? 
Haven't  had  a  meal  since  Tuesday  night,  and 
now  it's  Friday.  Any  one  would  think  you  were 
up  in  the  Ypres  region  before  the  eats  got  on  to 
the  time-table.  Pretty  good  grub  on  board  this 
old  French  tub,  if  you  holler  loud  enough." 

While  he  went  on  to  suggest  a  menu  for  my 
breakfast  I  endeavored  to  deal  with  the  new  hints 
he  had  thrown  out.  He  had  spoken  of  Ypres. 
He  had  referred  to  short  rations.  I  remembered 
that  there  was  a  war.  Whether  it  was  over,  or 

8 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

whether  it  was  going  on,  or  whether  I  had  taken 
part  in  it  or  not,  I  couldn't  say;  but  I  knew  there 
had  been,  and  perhaps  that  there  still  was,  a  war. 

I  tested  myself  as  to  that  while  I  watched  him 
button  his  collar  and  put  on  his  tie;  but  all  I 
drew  forth  was  a  sickening  sense  of  noise,  muti 
lation,  and  dirt,  which  might  have  been  no  more 
than  the  reaction  from  things  I  had  read.  Noth 
ing  personal  to  myself  entered  into  these  associ 
ations;  no  scene  of  horror  that  I  could  construct 
took  me  in  as  an  actor. 

My  light-hearted  companion  would  not,  how 
ever,  allow  me  to  follow  my  own  train  of  thought. 

"Say,"  he  laughed,  "I  know  your  name,  but 
I  don't  believe  you  know  mine."  The  laugh  grew 
forced  and  embarrassed.  "I've  got  the  darnedest 
name  for  kidding  a  guy  ever  got  stuck  on  him. 
Sometimes  it  makes  me  mad,  and  I  think  I'll  go 
to  law  and  change  it;  and  more  times  I  get  used 
to  it,  till  some  smart  Aleck  breezes  in  and  begins 
to  hang  it  all  over  me  again.  What  do  you  think 
it  is?  Give  a  guess  now." 

He  said  he  knew  my  name — and  I  didn't  know 
it  myself!  That  was  the  first  of  my  queer  dis 
coveries  that  appalled  me.  If  I  didn't  know  my 
own  name  .  .  .  But  the  boy  laughed  on. 

"Give  a  guess  now,"  he  coaxed,  buttoning  up 
his  waistcoat.  "I'll  give  you  two;  but  they  must 
be  awful  funny  ones." 

Nothing  funnier  than  Smith  and  Jones  having 
occurred  to  me,  he  burst  out  with: 

"Drinkwater!     Isn't  that  the  darnedest?     I 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

can't  look  sidewise  at  anything  that  isn't  water 
before  the  other  guys  begin  to  kid  me  all  over 
the  lot.  Many  a  time  I  would  drink  water — and 
don't  want  anything  but  water  to  drink — and 
Til  be  hanged  if  I  don't  feel  ashamed  to  have 
them  see  me  doing  it — and  me  with  that  name! 
What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

As  I  was  too  gravely  preoccupied  to  tell  him 
what  I  knew  about  that,  he  began  once  more  his 
curious  pawing  along  the  wall,  till  he  seized  a 
cap  which  he  pulled  down  on  his  head. 

"Oh,  hang!"  he  muttered  then.  "That's 
yours." 

This,  too,  was  information,  enabling  me  to  as 
sume  that  the  clothing  which  hung  on  the  same 
hook  was  mine  also.  I  looked  at  it  with  some 
interest,  but  also  with  a  renewed  feeling  of  dis 
comfort.  It  was  the  sort  of  suit  in  which  I  found 
it  difficult  to  see  myself.  Of  a  smooth  gray  twill, 
sleek  and  provincial,  there  was  that  about  it 
which  suggested  the  rural  beau. 

Having  momentarily  lost  his  orientation,  the 
boy  clawed  in  the  air  again,  touching  first  this 
object  and  then  that,  fingering  it,  considering  it, 
locating  it,  till  once  more  he  got  his  bearings. 
All  this  he  did  with  a  slowness  and  caution  that 
forced  on  me  the  recognition  of  the  fact,  which  I 
might  have  perceived  before,  that  he  was  blind. 

Nothing  betrayed  it  but  his  motions.  The 
starry  eyes  were  apparently  uninjured.  Only, 
when  you  knew  his  infirmity,  you  noticed  that 
the  starriness  was  like  that  of  an  electric  lamp, 

10 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

bright,  but  with  a  brightness  not  connected  with 
intelligence.  It  was  an  aimless  brightness,  di 
rected  at  nothing.  The  blaze  of  the  quick  pupils 
was  like  that  which  a  window  flashes  back  to  the 
sunset,  all  from  outside,  and  due  to  nothing  in 
the  house. 

Dressed  now  for  leaving  the  cabin,  he  still  had 
something  to  tell  me. 

"Say,  there's  one  man  on  board  who'll  be  glad 
to  hear  you've  waked  up.  That's  the  doctor. 
Not  the  ship's  doctor,"  he  hastened  to  explain, 
"but  my  doctor.  Say,  he's  about  the  whitest!" 

My  questions  were  inspired  not  so  much  by 
sympathy  with  him,  though  that  affected  me, 
as  by  the  hope  of  getting  sidelights  on  myself. 

"Do  you  travel  with  a  doctor?" 

"Came  over  with  him  just  before  the  war.  I 
was  his  stenog.  Name  of  Averill.  Been  in  and 
out  to  see  you  five  and  six  times  a  day  ever  since 
we  sailed.  Tell  you  all  about  him  after  I've  had 
my  breakfast.  Off  now  to  send  in  John-M'rie. 
Don't  forget  what  I  said  about  the  griddle-cakes. 
They  can  give  'em  to  you  good  and  greasy  if  you 
kick;  but  if  you  don't  they'll  just  hand  you  out 
a  pile  of  asbestos  table-mats." 


CHAPTER  II 

BEFORE  getting  up  to  make  the  investi 
gations  on  which  I  was  so  keen  I  waited  to 
be  rid  of  Jean-Marie.  He  came  in  presently — 
small,  black,  wiry,  not  particularly  clean,  and  with 
an  oily  smell,  but  full  of  an  ingratiating  kindness. 
When  I  had  trumped  up  an  explanation  of  my 
abnormally  long  sleep  I  set  him  to  separating  my 
hand-luggage  from  my  cabin-mate's,  nominally 
for  the  sake  of  convenience,  but  really  that  I 
might  know  which  was  mine. 

The  minute  he  had  left  with  my  order  for 
breakfast  I  sprang  from  my  bunk.  I  searched 
first  the  pockets  of  my  clothes.  There  was  noth 
ing  in  them  but  a  handkerchief,  a  few  French 
coins,  and  a  card  giving  the  number  of  a  cabin, 
the  number  of  a  seat  at  a  table  in  the  dining- 
saloon,  and  the  name  of  Mr.  Jasper  Soames. 
It  was  a  name  that  to  me  meant  nothing.  Refer 
ring  it  to  my  inner  self,  nothing  vibrated,  noth 
ing  rang.  It  was  like  trying  to  clink  a  piece  of 
money  on  wool  or  cork  or  some  other  unrespon 
sive  material. 

My  clothing  itself  was  what  I  had  guessed 
from  the  inspection  made  from  my  berth.  It 

12 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

suggested  having  been  bought  ready  to  wear, 
a  suggestion  borne  out  by  the  label  of  what  was 
apparently  a  big  department  store,  the  Bon 
Marche,  at  Tours.  My  cap  had  the  same  label, 
and  my  hard  felt  hat  no  maker's  name  at  all. 

I  began  on  the  bags  which  Jean-Marie  had 
segregated  as  my  property.  There  were  two,  a 
hand-bag  and  a  suit-case,  neither  of  them  tagged 
with  a  name.  The  hand-bag  contained  bottles, 
brushes,  handkerchiefs,  all  of  the  cheaper  varie 
ties.  Where  there  was  anything  to  indicate  the 
place  at  which  they  had  been  purchased  it  was 
always  the  Bon  Marche  at  Tours. 

In  the  suit-case,  which  was  unlocked,  and  which 
I  opened  feverishly,  there  was  a  suit  almost  iden 
tical  with  that  hanging  on  the  hook,  a  little  linen, 
a  few  changes  of  underclothing,  a  small  supply  of 
socks,  collars,  and  other  such  necessities,  all  more 
or  less  new,  some  of  them  still  unworn,  but  with 
not  so  much  as  an  initial  to  give  a  clue  to  the 
owner.  It  struck  me — and  I  made  the  observa 
tion  with  a  frightened  inward  laugh — that  a  man 
running  away  from  detection  for  a  crime  would 
fit  himself  out  in  just  this  way. 

Having  repacked  the  bags,  I  stood  at  a  loss,  in 
the  sense  that  for  the  first  time  I  felt  stunned. 
The  position  was  promising  to  be  more  serious 
than  I  had  thought  it  possible  for  it  to  become. 
There  were  so  many  things  to  think  of  that  I 
couldn't  see  them  all  before  me  at  a  glance. 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow  floor, 
steadying  myself  by  a  hand  on  the  edge  of  Drink- 

13 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

water's  bunk,  I  suddenly  caught  my  reflection 
in  the  glass.  It  was  a  new  line  to  follow  up. 
A  look  into  my  own  eyes  would  reforge  those 
links  with  myself  that  had  trembled  away.  I 
went  closer,  staring  at  the  man  who  now  con 
fronted  me. 

It  is  an  odd  experience  to  gaze  at  yourself  and 
see  a  stranger;  but  that  is  what  happened  to  me 
now.  The  face  that  gazed  back  at  me  was  one 
which,  as  far  as  I  could  tell,  I  had  never  seen  in 
my  life.  I  had  seen  faces  like  it,  hundreds  of 
them,  but  never  precisely  this  face.  It  was  the 
typical  face  of  the  brown-eyed,  brown-haired 
Anglo-Saxon,  lean,  leathery,  and  tanned;  but 
I  could  no  more  connect  it  with  my  intimate  self 
than  I  could  Drinkwater's  face,  or  Jean-Marie's. 

It  was  that  of  a  man  who  might  have  been 
thirty-two,  but  who  possibly  looked  older.  I 
mean  by  that  that  there  was  a  haggardness  in 
it  which  seemed  to  come  of  experience  rather  than 
from  time.  Had  you  passed  this  face  in  the 
street  you  would  have  said  that  it  was  that  of 
a  tall,  good-looking  young  fellow  with  a  brown 
mustache,  but  you  would  have  added  that  the 
eyes  had  the  queer,  far-away  luminosity  of  eyes 
that  have  "seen  things."  They  would  have  re 
minded  you  of  Drinkwater's  eyes — not  that  they 
were  like  them,  but  only  because  of  their  fixed 
retention  of  images  that  have  passed  away  from 
the  brain. 

My  next  thought  was  of  money.  So  far  I 
had  found  nothing  but  the  few  odd  coins  in  my 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

pockets;  but  that  I  had  plenty  of  it  somewhere  I 
took  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  know  now  by  ex 
perience  that  people  in  the  habit  of  having  money 
and  people  in  the  habit  of  not  having  it  are 
led  by  different  "senses."  In  the  one  case  it  is 
a  sense  of  limitation;  in  the  other  of  liberty.  It 
is  like  the  difference  between  the  movements  of 
a  blind  man  and  those  of  one  who  can  see — a 
tactful  feeling  of  every  step  in  contrast  with  the 
ease  to  come  and  go.  Of  all  the  distractions  in 
duced  by  poverty  and  wealth  it  is  one  that 
appeals  to  me  now  as  the  most  significant. 
Merely  to  do  without  things,  or  merely  to  possess 
things,  is  matter  of  little  importance.  A  man's 
life  consisteth  not  in  the  abundance  of  the  things 
which  he  possesseth,  we  are  told  on  high  author 
ity;  but  it  does  consist  in  his  state  of  mind.  To 
be  always  in  a  state  of  mind  in  which  restriction 
is  instinctive  is  like  always  creeping  as  a  baby 
and  never  learning  to  walk. 

But  as  far  as  money  went  I  was  free.  I  had 
never  been  without  it.  I  had  no  conception  of 
a  life  in  which  I  couldn't  spend  as  much  as  I 
reasonably  wished.  As  I  had  been  in  Europe,  I 
probably  had  a  letter  of  credit  somewhere,  if  I 
could  only  put  my  hand  on  it.  On  arriving  in 
New  York  I  should  of  course  have  access  to  my 
bank-account. 

It  occurred  to  me  to  look  under  my  pillow,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  was  a  little  leather  purse. 
That  it  was  a  common  little  purse  was  secondary 
to  the  fact  that  it  was  filled.  Sitting  on  the  edge 

15 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

of  the  couch,  I  opened  it  with  fingers  that  shook 
with  my  excitement.  It  contained  three  five- 
hundred-franc  notes,  two  for  a  hundred,  some 
hundred  and  fifty  in  gold,  and  a  little  silver, 
nearly  four  hundred  dollars  in  all.  I  seemed 
to  know  that  roughly  it  was  the  kind  of  sum  1 
generally  carried  on  my  person  when  abroad. 

After  a  hasty  scrubbing  up  I  crept  back  into 
bed,  and  waited  for  Jean-Marie  to  bring  my 
breakfast. 

It  was  my  first  thought  that  I  must  not  let  him 
see  that  anything  was  wrong.  I  must  let  no  one 
see  that.  The  reason  I  had  given  him  for  my 
extraordinary  sleep,  that  of  having  long  suffered 
from  insomnia  and  being  relieved  by  the  sea  air, 
would  have  to  pass,  too,  with  Drinkwater's  friend 
the  doctor,  should  he  come  to  see  me.  No  one, 
no  one,  must  suspect  that  for  so  much  as  an  hour 
the  sense  of  my  identity  had  escaped  me.  The 
shame  I  felt  at  that — a  shame  I  have  since  learned 
to  be  common  to  most  victims  of  the  same  mis 
hap — was  overwhelming.  Rather  than  confess 
it  I  could  own  to  nearly  anything  in  the  nature 
of  a  crime. 

But  it  was  no  one's  business  but  my  own.  I 
comforted  myself  with  that  reflection  amid  much 
that  I  found  disturbing. 

What  I  chiefly  found  disturbing  was  my  gen 
eral  environment.  I  couldn't  understand  this 
narrow  cabin,  these  provincial  foreign  clothes. 
While  I  was  sorry  for  Drinkwater's  blindness,  I 
disliked  the  closeness  of  contact  with  one  I  re- 

16 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

garded  as  my  inferior.  I  am  not  saying  that  I 
took  this  situation  seriously.  I  knew  I  could 
extricate  myself  from  it  on  arriving  in  New  York. 
The  element  in  it  that  troubled  me  was  my  in 
ability  to  account  for  it.  What  had  I  been  doing 
that  I  should  find  myself  in  conditions  so  dis 
tasteful?  Why  should  I  have  wanted  to  obliter 
ate  my  traces?  It  was  obvious  that  I  had  done 
it,  and  that  I  had  done  it  with  deliberation.  Be 
ing  Somebody  in  the  world,  I  had  made  myself 
Nobody,  and  for  that  I  must  have  had  a  motive. 
Was  it  a  motive  that  would  confront  me  as  soon 
as  I  had  become  Somebody  again  ?  That  I  should 
have  lost  the  sense  of  my  identity  was  bad  enough 
in  itself;  but  that  I  should  reappear  in  a  role 
that  was  not  my  own,  and  with  a  name  I  was 
sure  I  had  never  borne,  was  at  once  terrifying 
and  grotesque. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  escape  some  of 
my  embarrassment  by  asking  Drinkwater  to 
stop  his  friend  the  doctor  from  looking  in  on  me; 
but  before  I  had  time  to  formulate  this  plan,  and 
while  I  was  sitting  up  crosslegged  in  my  berth, 
eating  from  the  tray  which  Jean-Marie  had  laid 
on  my  knees,  there  was  a  sharp  rap  on  the  door. 
As  I  could  do  nothing  but  say,  "Come  in,"  the 
doctor  was  before  me. 

"Good!"  he  said,  quietly,  without  greeting 
or  self-introduction.  "  Best  thing  you  could  be 
doing." 

The  lack  of  formality  nettled  me.  I  objected 
to  his  assumption  of  a  right  to  force  himself  in 
uninvited. 

I  said,  frigidly:  "I  shall  be  out  on  deck  pres 
ently.  If  you  want  to  see  me,  perhaps  it  would 
be  easier  there." 

"Oh,  this  is  all  right."  He  made  himself  com 
fortable  in  a  corner  of  the  couch,  propping  his 
body  against  the  rolling  of  the  ship  with  a  forti 
fication  of  bags.  "Glad  you're  able  to  get  up 
and  dress.  I'm  Doctor  Averill." 

To  give  him  to  understand  that  I  was  not  com- 
18 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

municative  I  took  this  information  in  silence. 
My  coldness  apparently  did  not  impress  him,  and, 
sitting  in  the  corner  diagonally  opposite  to  mine, 
he  watched  me  eat. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  in  whom  personality 
disappears  in  the  scientific  observer.  His  feat 
ures,  manners,  clothing,  were  mere  accidents. 

He  struck  you  as  being  wise,  though  with  a 
measure  of  sympathy  in  his  wisdom.  Small  in 
build,  the  dome  of  his  forehead  would  have  cov 
ered  a  man  of  twice  his  stature.  A  small,  dark 
mustache  was  no  more  consciously  a  point  of 
personal  adornment  than  a  patch  of  stonecrop 
to  a  rock.  When  he  took  off  his  cap  his  baldness, 
though  more  extensive  than  you  would  have  ex 
pected  in  a  man  who  couldn't  have  been  older  than 
forty-five,  was  the  finishing-touch  of  the  staid. 

"You've  been  having  a  long  sleep." 

"Yes." 

"Making  up  for  lost  time?" 

"Exactly." 

"Been   at  the  front?" 

It  was  the  kind  of  a  question  I  was  afraid  of. 
I  knew  that  if  I  said,  "Yes,"  I  should  have  to  give 
details,  and  so  I  said,  "No." 

"Look  as  if  you  had  been." 

"Do  I?" 

"Often  leaves  some  sort  of  hang-over — " 

"It  couldn't  do  that  in  my  case,  because  I 
wasn't  there." 

He  tried  another  avenue  of  approach.  "  Drink- 
water  told  me  you  were  a  Frenchman." 

19 


THE  THREAD  OF   FLAME 

"That  seems  to  have  been  a  mistake  of  our 
steward." 

"But  you  speak  the  language." 

"Yes,  I  speak  it." 

"You  must  speak  it  very  well." 

"Probably." 

"Have  you  lived  much  in  France?" 

"Oh,  on  and  off." 

"Had  a  position  over  there?" 

It  seemed  to  be  my  turn  to  ask  a  question.  I 
shot  him  a  quick  glance.  "What  sort  of  position 
do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  but  what  you  might  have 
been  in  a  shop  or  an  office — " 

So  I  looked  like  that!  It  was  a  surprise  to  me. 
I  had  thought  he  might  mention  the  Embassy. 
My  sense  of  superior  standing  was  so  strong  that 
I  expected  another  man  of  superior  standing  to 
see  it  at  a  glance.  Contenting  myself  with  a 
shake  of  the  head?  I  felt  his  eyes  on  me  with  a 
graver  stare. 

"Must  have  found  it  useful  to  speak  French 
so  well,  especially  at  a  time  like  this." 

I  allowed  that  to  pass  without  challenge. 

"If  we  should  ever  go  into  the  war  a  fellow 
like  you  could  make  himself  handy  in  a  lot  of 
ways." 

We  were  therefore  not  in  the  war.  I  was  glad 
to  add  that  to  my  list  of  facts.  "I  should  try," 
I  assented,  feeling  that  the  words  committed  me 
to  nothing. 

"Wonder  you  weren't  tempted  to  pitch  in  as 

20 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

it  was.     A  lot  of  our  young  Americans  did — chaps 
who  found  themselves  over  there." 

"I  wasn't  one  of  them." 

"  Poor  Drinkwater,  now — he  went  over  with  me 
as  my  stenographer  in  the  spring  of  that  year; 
and  when  the  thing  broke  out — " 

"He  went?" 

"Yes,  he  went." 

"And  didn't  get  much  good  from  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that.  Depends — 
doesn't  it? — on  what  we  mean  by  good.  You 
fellows—" 

I  shot  him  another  glance,  but  I  don't  think  he 
noticed  that  I  objected  to  being  classed  with 
Drinkwater. 

"You  fellows — "  he  began  again. 

I  never  knew  how  he  meant  to  continue,  for 
a  shuffling  and  pawing  outside  the  door  warned 
us  that  Drinkwater,  having  finished  his  break 
fast,  was  feeling  his  way  in. 

The  doctor  spoke  as  the  boy  pushed  the  door 
open  and  stumbled  across  the  threshold. 

"Morning,  Harry!  Your  friend  here  seems 
to  have  waked  up  in  pretty  good  condition. 
Look  at  the  breakfast  he's  been  making  away 
with."  He  rose  to  leave,  since  the  cabin  had 
not  room  enough  for  two  men  on  foot  at  the  same 
time.  "See  you  on  deck  by  and  by,"  he  added, 
with  a  nod  to  me;  "then  we  can  have  a  more 
satisfactory  talk." 

I  waited  till  he  was  out  of  earshot.  "Who  is 
he,  anyhow?" 

21 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

In  giving  me  a  summary  of  Averill's  history 
Drinkwater  couldn't  help  weaving  in  a  partial 
one  of  his  own.  It  was  in  fact  most  of  his  own, 
except  that  it  included  no  reference  to  his  birth 
and  parentage. 

Drinkwater  had  worked  his  way  through  one 
of  the  great  universities,  when  laboratory  research 
threw  him  in  contact  with  Boyd  Averill.  The 
latter  was  not  a  practising  physician,  but  a  stu 
dent  of  biology.  He  was  the  more  at  liberty  to 
follow  one  of  the  less  lucrative  lines  of  scientific 
work  because  of  being  a  man  of  large  means. 
Sketching  the  origin  of  this  fortune,  my  companion 
informed  me  that  from  his  patron's  democratic 
ways  no  one  would  ever  suppose  him  the  only  son, 
and  except  for  a  sister  the  only  heir,  of  the  biggest 
banker  in  the  state  of  New  Jersey.  By  one  of 
those  odd  freaks  of  heredity  which  neither  Sir 
Francis  Galton  nor  the  great  Plockendorff  had 
been  able  to  explain,  Boyd  Averill  had  shown  a 
distaste  for  banking  from  his  cradle,  and  yet  with 
an  interest  equally  difficult  to  account  for  in 
bacteria. 

On  the  subject  of  Averill's  more  personal  life 
all  my  friend  could  tell  me  was  that  he  had 
married  Miss  Lulu  Winfield,  once  well  known 
on  the  concert  stage. 

"And,  say,"  he  went  on,  enthusiastically, 
"she's  about  the  prettiest.  You'll  see  for  your 
self  when  you  come  up  on  deck.  She'll  speak  to 
you.  Oh  yes,  she  will,"  he  hastened  to  assure 
me,  when  I  began  to  demur.  "She  won't  mind. 

22 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She's  not  a  bit  aristocratic,  and  Miss  Blair  says' 
the  same." 

To  make  conversation  I  asked  him  who  was 
Miss  Blair,  learning  that  she  was  the  young; 
lady  whom  Miss  Averill  had  brought  over  to 
Europe  to  act  as  stenographer  to  her1  brother 
when  Drinkwater  had  gone  to  the  war. 

"You  see,"  he  continued  to  explain,  "Averill's 
been  white  with  me  from  the  start.  When  I  left 
him  in  the  lurch — after  he'd  paid  my  expenses 
over  to  Europe  and  all  that — because  the  war 
broke  out,  he  didn't  kick  any  more  than  a  straw 
dummy.  When  I  told  him  I  felt  mean,  but  that 
this  war  couldn't  be  going  on  and  me  not  in  ity 
he  said  that  at  my  age  he'd  have  felt  the  same. 
One  of  these  days  I've  got  to  pay  him  back  that 
fare.  I'll  do  that  when  I've  got  to  work  in  New 
York  and  saved  a  bit  of  dough." 

I  asked  him  what  he  meant  to  work  at. 

"Oh,  there'll  be  things.  There  always  are.  Miss 
Blair  wants  rne  to  learn  the  touch  system  and  go 
in  for  big  stenography.  Says  she'll  teach  me. 
Say,  she's  some  girl.  I  want  you  to  know  her." 
He  reverted  to  the  principal  theme.  "  Big  money 
in  piano-tuning,  too,  though  what  I'm  really  out 
for  is  biology.  But  after  all  what's  biology  but 
the  science  of  life? — and  you  can  pick  that  up 
anywhere.  Oh,  I'm  all  right.  I've  had  the 
darnedest  good  luck,  when  I've  seen  my  pals — •"' 
He  left  this  sentence  unfinished,  going  on  to  say: 
"That  was  the  way  when  I  got  mine  at  Bois 
Robert.  Shell  came  down — and,  gee  whizz! 

23 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Nothing  left  of  a  bunch  of  six  or  eight  of  us  but 
me — and  I  only  got  this." 

A  toss  of  his  hand  was  meant  to  indicate  his 
eyes,  after  which  he  went  on  to  tell  how  marvel- 
ously  he  had  been  taken  care  of,  with  the  addi 
tional  good  luck  of  running  across  Boyd  Averill 
in  hospital.  Best  luck  of  all  was,  now  that  he 
was  able  to  go  home,  the  Averills  were  coming, 
too,  and  had  been  willing  to  have  him  sail  by 
their  boat  and  keep  an  eye  on  him.  He  spoke 
as  if  they  were  his  intimate  friends,  while  I  had 
only  to  appear  on  deck  to  have  them  become 
mine. 

"In  the  jewelry  business ?"  he  asked  me, 
suddenly. 

I  stared  in  an  amazement  of  which  he  must 
have  recognized  the  tones  in  my  voice.  "What 
made  you  ask  me  that?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Speak  like  it.  Thought 
you  might  have  been  in  that — or  gents'  furnish 
ings." 

After  he  had  gone  on  deck,  and  Jean-Marie 
had  taken  away  the  tray,  I  got  up  and  dressed. 
I  did  it  slowly,  with  a  hatred  to  my  clothes  that 
grew  as  I  put  them  on.  How  I  had  dressed  in 
the  previous  portion  of  my  life  I  couldn't,  of 
course,  tell;  but  now  I  was  something  between 
a  country  barber  and  a  cheap  Latin  Quarter 
Bohemian.  In  conjunction  with  my  patently 
Anglo-Saxon  face  nothing  could  have  been  more 
grotesque. 

I  thought  of  trunks.  I  must  have  some  in 
24 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  hold.  Ringing  for  Jean-Marie,  I  asked  if  it 
would  be  possible  to  have  one  or  two  of  them 
brought  up.  If  so,  I  could  go  back  to  bed  again 
till  I  found  something  more  presentable.  The 
steward,  with  comic  compassion  stealing  into 
his  eye  as  he  studied  me,  said  that  of  course  it 
was  possible  to  have  monsieur's  trunks  brought  up 
if  monsieur  would  give  him  the  checks  or  receipts, 
which  would  doubtless  be  in  monsieur's  pockets. 
But  a  search  revealed  nothing.  The  bags  and 
my  purse  revealed  nothing.  My  dismay  at  the 
fact  that  I  had  come  on  board  without  other  be 
longings  than  those  on  the  couch  almost  betrayed 
me  to  the  little  man  watching  me  so  wistfully. 
I  was  obliged  to  invent  a  story  of  hurried  war-time 
traveling  in  order  to  get  him  out. 

My  predicament  was  growing  more  absurd. 
I  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  considered  it.  It 
would  have  been  easy  to  become  excited,  frantic, 
frenzied,  with  my  ridiculous  inability.  Putting 
my  hands  to  my  head,  I  could  have  torn  it  asun 
der  to  wrest  from  my  atrophied  brain  the  secret 
it  guarded  so  maliciously.  "None  of  that!"  I 
warned  myself;  and  my  hands  came  down. 
Whatever  I  did  I  must  do  coolly.  So  not  long 
after  the  eight  bells  of  noon  I  dragged  myself  to 
the  deck. 

All  at  once  I  began  to  find  something  like  con 
solation.  The  wild  beauty  of  sky  and  water 
beat  in  on  me  like  love.  I  must  have  traveled 
often  enough  before,  so  that  it  was  not  new  to 
me;  but  it  was  all  the  more  comforting  for  that. 

25 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  had  come  back  to  an  old,  old  friendship — the 
friendship  of  wind  and  color  and  scudding  clouds 
and  glinting  horizons  and  the  mad  squadrons  of 
the  horses  of  Neptune  shaking  their  foamy 
manes.  Amid  the  raging  tempests  of  cloud 
there  were  tranquil  islands  of  a  blue  such  as  was 
never  unfolded  by  a  flower.  In  the  long,  sweep 
ing  hollows  of  the  waves  one's  eye  could  catch 
all  the  hues  in  pigeons'  necks.  Before  a  billow 
broke  it  climbed  to  a  tip  of  that  sea-water  green 
more  ineffable  than  any  of  the  greens  of  grass, 
jades,  or  emeralds.  From  every  crest,  and  in 
widening  lines  from  the  ship's  sides  as  we  plowed 
along,  the  foam  trailed  into  shreds  that  seemed 
to  have  been  torn  from  the  looms  of  a  race  more 
deft  and  exquisite  than  ours. 

Not  many  men  and  women  love  beauty  for 
its  own  sake.  Not  many  see  it.  To  most  of  us 
it  is  only  an  adjunct  to  comfort  or  pride.  It 
springs  from  the  purse,  or  at  best  from  the  in 
tellect;  but  the  hidden  man  of  the  heart  doesn't 
care  for  it.  The  hidden  man  of  the  heart  has 
no  capacity  to  value  the  cloud  or  the  bit  of  jewel- 
weed.  These  things  meet  no  need  in  him;  they 
inspire  no  ecstasy.  The  cloud  dissolves  and  the 
bit  of  jewel-weed  goes  back  to  earth;  and  the 
chances  are  that  no  human  eye  has  noted  the 
fact  that  each  has  externalized  God  in  one  of 
the  myriad  forms  of  His  appeal  to  us.  Only  here 
and  there,  at  long  intervals,  is  there  one  to  whom 
line  and  color  and  invisible  forces  like  the  wind 
are  significant  and  sacred,  and  as  essential  as  food 

26 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

and  drink.  It  came  to  me  now  that,  somewhere 
in  my  past,  beauty  had  been  the  dominating 
energy — that  beauty  was  the  thread  of  flame 
which,  if  I  kept  steadily  hold  of  it,  would  lead 
me  back  whence  I  came. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FROM  the  spectacle  of  sea  and  sky  I  turned 
away  at  last,  only  because  my  senses  could 
take  in  no  more.     Then  I  saw  beauty  in  another 
form. 

A  girl  was  advancing  down  the  deck  who  em 
bodied  the  evanescence  of  the  cloud  and  the  grace 
of  the  bit  of  jewel-weed  in  a  way  I  could  never 
convey  to  you.  You  must  see  me  as  standing 
near  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  the  long,  clean  line 
of  the  deck,  with  an  irregular  fringe  of  people 
in  deck-chairs,  as  empty  except  for  this  slender, 
solitary  figure.  The  rise  and  fall  of  the  ship  were 
a  little  like  those  of  a  bough  in  the  wind,  while 
she  was  the  bird  on  it.  She  advanced  serenely, 
sedately,  her  hands  jauntily  in  the  pockets  of  an 
ulster,  which  was  gray,  with  cuffs  and  collar  of 
sage-green.  A  sage-green  tam-o'-shanter  was 
fastened  to  a  mass  of  the  living  fair  hair  which, 
for  want  of  a  better  term,  we  call  golden.  Her 
awareness  of  herself  almost  amounted  to  in 
difference;  and  as  she  passed  under  the  row  of 
onlookers'  eyes  she  seemed  to  fling  out  a  chal 
lenge  which  was  not  defiant,  but  good-natured. 
Not  defiant  but  good-natured  was  the  gaze  she 

28 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

fixed  on  me,  a  gaze  as  lacking  in  self-conscious 
ness  as  it  was  in  hesitation.  A  child  might  have 
looked  at  you  in  this  way,  or  a  dog,  or  any  other 
being  not  afraid  of  you.  Of  a  blue  which  could 
only  be  compared  to  that  in  the  rifts  in  the  cloud 
overhead,  her  eyes  never  wavered  in  their  long, 
calm  regard  till  they  were  turned  on  me  obliquely 
as  she  passed  by.  She  did  not,  however,  look 
back;  and  reaching  the  end  of  the  promenade,  she 
rounded  the  corner  and  went  up  the  other  way. 

Thinking  of  her  merely  as  a  vision  seen  by 
chance,  I  was  the  more  surprised  when  she  entered 
the  dining-saloon,  helping  my  friend  Drinkwater. 
I  had  purposely  got  to  my  place  before  any  one 
else,  so  as  to  avoid  the  awkwardness  of  arriving 
unknown  among  people  who  already  have  made 
one  another's  acquaintance.  Moreover,  the  table 
being  near  to  one  of  the  main  entrances,  my  cor 
ner  allowed  me  to  take  notes  on  all  who  came  in. 
Not  that  I  was  interested  in  my  fellow-passengers 
otherwise  than  as  part  of  my  self-defense.  Self- 
defense,  the  keeping  any  one  from  suspecting  the 
mischance  that  had  befallen  me,  seemed  to  me, 
for  the  moment,  even  more  important  than  find 
ing  out  who  I  was. 

Transatlantic  travel  having  already  become 
difficult,  those  who  entered  were  few  in  number; 
and  as  people  are  always  at  their  worst  at  sea, 
they  struck  me  as  mere  bundles  of  humanity. 
Among  the  first  to  pass  my  table  was  Boyd  Aver- 
ill,  who  gave  me  a  friendly  nod.  After  him  came 
a  girl  of  perhaps  twenty-five,  grave,  sensible,  and 

29 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

so  indifferent  to  appearances  that  I  put  her  down 
as  his  sister.  Last  of  all  was  she  whom  Drink- 
water  had  summed  up  as  "one  of  the  prettiest." 
She  was;  yet  not  in  the  way  in  which  the  vision 
on  the  deck  had  been  the  same.  The  vision  on 
the  deck  had  had  no  more  self-consciousness  than 
the  bit  of  jewel-weed.  This  richly  colored 
beauty,  with  eyes  so  long  and  almond-shaped 
that  they  were  almost  Mongolian,  was  self-con 
scious  in  the  grain — luxurious,  expensive,  and 
languorous. 

My  table  companions  began  to  gather,  turning 
my  attention  chiefly  on  myself.  I  had  traveled 
enough  to  know  the  chief  steward  as  a  discrimi 
nating  judge  of  human  nature.  Those  who  came 
asking  for  seats  at  table  he  sized  up  in  a  flash, 
associating  like  with  like,  and  rarely  making  a 
mistake.  On  journeys  *of  which  no  record  re 
mained  with  me  I  had  often  admired  this  classi 
fying  instinct,  doubtless  because  any  discrimi 
nation  it  may  have  contained  was  complimentary 
to  myself.  To-day  I  had  occasion  to  find  it 
otherwise. 

On  coming  on  board  I  must  have  followed  the 
routine  of  other  voyages.  Before  turning  into 
my  bunk  for  my  long  sleep  I  had  apparently 
asked  to  be  assigned  a  seat  at  table,  and  given 
the  name  of  Jasper  Soames.  Guided  by  his  in 
tuitive  social  flair,  the  chief  steward  had  adju 
dicated  me  to  a  side  table  in  a  corner,  where  to 
day  my  first  companion  was  a  lady's  maid.  The 
second  was  a  young  man  whom  I  had  no  difficulty 

30 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

in  diagnosing  as  a  chauffeur,  after  whom  Drink- 
water  and  the  vision  of  the  deck  came  gaily 
along  together.  She  probably  informed  him  that 
I  was  already  in  my  place,  for  as  he  passed  me  to 
reach  his  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  he  clapped 
me  on  the  shoulder  with  a  glad  salute. 

"So,  old  scout,  you've  got  ahead  of  us!  Bully 
for  you !  Knew  you'd  eat  a  whale  when  once  you 
got  started.  Say,  what  we'd  all  like  to  sit  down 
to  now  is  a  good  old-fashioned  dinner  of  corned 
beef  and  cabbage  instead  of  all  this  French  stuff." 
He  had  not,  however,  forgotten  the  courtesies 
of  the  occasion.  "Miss  Blair,  let  me  make  you 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Soames.  Mr.  Soames, 
Miss  Mulberry;  Mr.  Finnegan,  Mr.  Soames." 

For  the  ladies  I  half  rose,  with  a  bow;  for  Mr. 
Finnegan  I  made  a  nod  suffice.  Mr.  Finnegan 
seemed  scarcely  to  think  I  merited  a  nod  in  return. 
Miss  Mulberry  acknowledged  me  coldly.  As 
for  Miss  Blair,  she  inclined  her  head  with  the  grace 
of  the  lilium  canadense  or  the  nodding  trinity- 
flower.  In  the  act  there  was  that  shade  of  negli 
gence  which  tells  the  worldly  wise  that  friendli 
ness  is  not  refused,  but  postponed. 

We  three  formed  a  group  at  one  end  of  the 
table — Drinkwater  having  Miss  Blair  on  his  right 
and  myself  on  his  left — while  Mr.  Finnegan  and 
Miss  Mulberry  forgathered  at  the  other.  The 
table  being  set  for  eight,  there  was  a  vacant  seat 
between  Miss  Mulberry  and  Miss  Blair,  and  two 
between  myself  and  Mr.  Finnegan.  This  break 
ing  into  sets  was  due,  therefore,  to  the  chief  stew- 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

ard,  and  not  to  any  sense  of  affinity  or  rejection 
among  ourselves. 

After  a  few  polite  generalities  as  to  the  run  and 
other  sea-going  topics  the  conversation  broke 
into  dialogues — Mr.  Finnegan  and  Miss  Mul 
berry,  Mr.  Drinkwater  and  Miss  Blair.  This 
seeming  to  be  the  established  procedure,  it  re 
mained  for  me  to  take  it  as  a  relief. 

For  again  it  gave  me  time  to  ask  why  I  was 
graded  as  I  found  myself.  A  man  who  knows 
he  is  a  general  and  wakes  up  to  see  himself  a 
private,  with  every  one  taking  it  for  granted  that 
he  is  a  private  and  no  more,  would  experience  the 
same  bewilderment.  What  had  I  done  that  such  a 
situation  -could  have  come  about?  What  had 
I  been  ?  How  long  was  my  knowledge  of  myself 
to  depend  on  a  group  of  shattered  brain  cells? 

I  had  not  followed  the  conversation  of  Mr. 
Drinkwater  and  Miss  Blair,  even  though  I  might 
have  overheard  it;  but  suddenly  the  lady  glanced 
up  with  a  clear,  straightforward  look  from  her 
myosotis  eyes. 

"Mr.  Soames,  have  you  ever  lived  in  Boston?" 

The  husky,  veiled  voice  was  of  that  bantering 
quality  for  which  the  French  word  gouailleur  is 
the  only  descriptive  term.  In  Paris  it  would  have 
been  called  une  voix  de  Montmartre,  and  as  an 
expression  of  New  York  it  might  best  be  ascribed 
to  Third  Avenue.  It  was  jolly,  free-and-easy, 
common,  and  sympathetic,  all  at  once. 

My  instinct  for  self-defense  urged  me  to  say, 
"No,"  and  I  said  it  promptly. 

32 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Or  Denver?" 

I  said,  "No,"  again,  and  for  the  same  reason. 
I  couldn't  be  pinned  down  to  details.  If  I  said, 
"Yes,"  I  should  be  asked  when  and  where  and 
how,  and  be  driven  to  invention. 

"Were  you  ever  in  Salt  Lake  City?*' 

A  memory  of  a  big  gray  building,  with  the  Angel 
Moroni  on  the  top  of  it,  of  broad,  straight  streets, 
of  distant  mountains,  of  a  desert  twisted  and 
suffering,  of  a  lake  that  at  sunset  glowed  with  the 
colors  old  artists  burned  into  enamels — a  mem 
ory  of  all  this  came  to  me,  and  I  said,  "Yes," 
I  said  it  falteringly,  wondering  if  it  would  com 
mit  me  to  anything.  It  committed  me  to  nothing, 
so  far  as  I  could  see,  but  a  glance  of  Miss  Blair's 
heaven-colored  eyes  toward  her  friend,  as  though 
I  had  corroborated  something  she  had  said.  She 
had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  Drinkwater 
was  blind,  so  that  of  this  significant  look  I  alone 
got  the  benefit.  What  it  meant  I,  of  course, 
didn't  know;  I  could  only  see  it  meant  something. 

The  obvious  thing  for  it  to  mean  was  that 
Miss  Blair  knew  more  about  me  than  I  knew 
myself.  While  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that, 
it  nevertheless  remained  as  part  of  the  general 
experience  of  life  which  had  not  escaped  me, 
that  one  rarely  went  among  any  large  number 
of  people  without  finding  some  one  who  knew 
who  one  was.  That  had  happened  to  me  many  a 
time,  especially  on  steamers,  though  I  could  no 
longer  fix  the  occasions.  I  decided  to  cultivate 
Miss  Blair  and,  if  possible,  get  a  clue  from  her. 
3  33 


CHAPTER  V 

HT^HAT  which,  in  my  condition,  irked  me 
JL  more  than  anything  was  the  impossibility 
of  being  by  myself.  The  steamer  was  a  small  one, 
with  all  the  passengers  of  one  class.  Those  who 
now  crossed  the  Atlantic  were  doing  it  as  best 
they  could;  and  to  be  thrown  pell-mell  into  a 
second-rate  ship  like  the  Auvergne  was  better, 
in  the  opinion  of  most  people,  than  not  to  cross 
at  all.  It  was  a  matter  of  eight  or  ten  days  of 
physical  discomfort,  with  home  at  the  other  end. 

I  knew  now  that  the  month  was  September, 
and  the  equinox  not  far  away.  It  was  mild  for 
the  time  of  year,  and,  though  the  weather  was 
rough,  it  was  not  dirty.  With  the  winds  shifting 
quickly  from  west  to  northwest  and  back  again, 
the  clouds  were  distant  and  dry,  lifting  from 
time  to  time  for  bursts  of  stormy  sunshine. 
For  me  it  was  a  pageant.  I  could  forget  myself 
in  its  contemplation.  It  was  the  vast,  and  I  was 
only  the  infinitesimal;  it  was  the  ever-varying 
eternal,  and  I  was  the  sheerest  offspring  of  time, 
whose  affairs  were  of  no  moment. 

Nevertheless,  I  had  pressing  instant  needs,  or 
needs  that  would  become  pressing  as  soon  as  we 

34 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

reached  New  York.  Between  now  and  then  there 
were  five  or  six  days  during  which  I  might  re 
cover  the  knowledge  that  had  escaped  me;  but 
if  I  didn't  I  should  be  in  a  difficult  situation. 
I  should  be  unable  to  get  money;  I  should  be 
unable  to  go  home.  I  should  be  lost.  Unless 
some  one  found  me  I  should  have  to  earn  a  living. 
To  earn  a  living  there  must  be  something  I  could 
do,  and  I  didn't  know  that  I  could  do  anything. 

Of  all  forms  of  exasperation,  this  began  to  be 
the  most  maddening.  I  must  have  had  a  pro 
fession;  and  yet  there  was  no  profession  I  could 
think  of  from  which  I  didn't  draw  back  with  the 
peculiar  sick  recoil  I  felt  the  minute  I  approached 
whatever  was  personal  to  myself.  In  this  there 
were  elements  contradictory  to  each  other.  I 
wanted  to  know — and  yet  I  shrank  from  knowing. 
If  I  could  have  had  access  to  what  money  I  needed 
I  should  have  been  content  to  drift  into  the  un 
known  without  regret. 

But  there  was  a  reserve  even  here.  It  attached 
to  the  word  home.  On  that  word  the  door  had 
not  been  so  completely  shut  that  a  glimmer 
didn't  leak  through.  I  knew  I  had  a  home.  I 
longed  for  it  without  knowing  what  I  longed  for. 
I  could  see  myself  arriving  in  New  York,  fulfilling 
the  regular  dock  routine — and  going  somewhere. 
But  I  didn't  know  where.  Of  some  ruptured 
brain  cell  enough  remained  to  tell  me  that  on  the 
American  continent  a  spot  belonged  to  me;  but 
it  told  me  no  more  than  the  fact  that  the  spot 
had  love  in  it.  I  could  feel  the  love  and  not  dis- 

35 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

cern  the  object.  As  to  whether  I  had  father  or 
mother  or  wife  or  child  I  knew  no  more  than  I 
knew  the  same  facts  of  the  captain  of  the  ship. 
Out  of  this  darkness  there  came  only  a  vision  of 
flaming  eyes  which  might  mean  anything  or 
nothing. 

I  was  unable  to  pursue  this  line  of  thought 
because  Miss  Blair  came  strolling  by  with  the 
same  nonchalant  air  with  which  she  had  passed 
me  before  lunch.  I  can  hardly  say  she  stopped; 
rather  she  commanded,  and  swept  me  along. 

"Don't  you  want  to  take  a  walk,  Mr.  Soames? 
You'd  better  do  it  now,  because  we'll  be  rolling 
scuppers  under  by  and  by." 

For  making  her  acquaintance  it  was  too  good 
an  opportunity  to  miss.  In  spite  of  my  inability 
to  play  up  to  her  gay  cheerfulness  I  found  myself 
strolling  along  beside  her. 

I  may  say  at  once  that  I  never  met  a  hu 
man  being  with  whom  I  was  more  instantly  on 
terms  of  confidence.  The  sketch  of  her  life 
which  she  gave  me  without  a  second's  hesita 
tion  came  in  response  to  my  remark  that  from 
her  questions  to  me  at  table  I  judged  her  to 
have  traveled. 

"I  was  born  on  the  road,  and  I  suppose  I  shall 
never  get  off  it.  My  father  and  mother  had  got 
hitched  to  a  theatrical  troupe  on  tour." 

A  distaste  acquired  as  a  little  girl  on  tour  had 
kept  her  from  trying  her  fortunes  on  the  boards. 
She  had  an  idea  that  her  father  was  acting  still, 
though  after  his  divorce  from  her  mother  they 

36 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

had  lost  sight  of  him.  Her  mother  had  died  six 
years  previously,  since  which  time  she  had  looked 
after  herself,  with  some  ups  and  downs  of  ex 
perience.  She  had  been  a  dressmaker,  a  milliner, 
and  a  model,  with  no  more  liking  for  any  of  these 
professions  than  she  had  for  the  theatrical.  In 
winding  up  this  brief  narrative  she  astounded  me 
with  the  statement: 

"And  now  Fm  going  to  be  an  adventuress." 

"A  what?"  I  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
deck  to  stare  at  her. 

She  repeated  the  obnoxious  noun,  continuing 
to  walk  on. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  a  stenographer." 

"That's  part  of  it.  I'm  deceiving  poor  Miss 
Averill.  She's  my  dupe.  I  make  use  of  people 
in  that  way — and  throw  them  aside." 

"  But  doing  the  work  for  Doctor  Averill  in  the 
mean  time." 

"Oh,  that's  just  a  pretext." 

"A  pretext  for  what?" 

"For  being  an  adventuress.  Goodness  knows 
what  evil  I  shall  do  in  that  family  before  I  get 
out  of  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Oh,  well,  you'll  see.  If  you're  born  baleful — 
well,  you've  just  got  to  be  baleful;  that's  all. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  an  adventuress  who  didn't 
wreck  homes?" 

I  said  I  had  not  much  experience  with  advent 
uresses,  and  didn't  quite  know  the  point  of  their 
occupation. 

37 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 
Well,  you  stay  around  where  I  am  and  you'll 


see." 


"Have  you  wrecked  many  homes  up  to  the 
present?"  I  ventured  to  inquire. 

"This  is  the  first  one  I  ever  had  a  chance  at. 
I  only  decided  to  be  an  adventuress  about  the 
time  when  Miss  Averill  came  along." 

That,  it  seemed,  had  been  at  the  Settlement, 
to  which  Miss  Blair  had  retired  after  some  trying 
situations  as  a  model.  Stenography  being  taught 
at  the  Settlement,  she  had  taken  it  up  on  hearing 
of  several  authenticated  cases  of  girls  who  had 
gone  into  offices  and  married  millionaires.  The 
discouraging  side  presented  itself  later  in  the  many 
more  cases  of  girls  who  had  not  been  so  success 
ful.  It  was  in  this  interval  of  depression  on  the 
part  of  Miss  Blair  that  Mildred  Averill  had  ap 
peared  at  the  Settlement  with  all  sorts  of  anxious 
plans  about  doing  good.  "If  she  wants  to  do 
good  to  any  one,  let  her  do  it  to  me,"  Miss  Blair 
had  said  to  her  intimates.  "I'm  all  ready  to 
be  adopted  by  any  old  maid  that's  got  the  wad." 
That,  she  explained  to  me,  was  not  the  language 
she  habitually  used.  It  was  mere  pleasantry 
between  girls,  and  not  up  to  the  standard  of  a 
really  high-class  adventuress.  Moreover,  Miss 
Averill  was  not  an  old  maid,  seeing  she  was  but 
twenty-five,  though  she  got  herself  up  like  forty. 

All  the  same,  Miss  Averill  having  come  on  the 
scene  and  having  taken  a  fancy  to  Miss  Blair, 
Miss  Blair  had  decided  to  use  Miss  Averill  for 
her  own  malignant  purposes. 

38 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

For  by  this  time  the  seeming  stenographer  had 
chosen  her  career.  A  sufficient  course  of  reading 
had  made  it  clear  that  of  all  the  women  in  the 
world  the  adventuress  had  the  best  of  it.  She  went 
to  the  smartest  dressmakers;  she  stayed  at  the 
dearest  hotels;  her  jewels  and  furs  rivaled  those 
of  duchesses;  her  life  was  the  perpetual  third 
act  of  a  play.  Furthermore,  Miss  Blair  had  yet 
to  hear  of  an  adventuress  who  didn't  end  in 
money,  marriage,  and  respectability. 

Having  been  so  frank  about  herself,  I  could 
hardly  be  surprised  when  she  became  equally 
so  about  me.  As  the  wind  rose  she  slipped 
into  a  protected  angle,  where  1  had  no  choice 
but  to  follow  her.  She  began  her  attack  after 
propping  herself  in  the  corner,  her  hands 
deep  in  her  pockets,  and  her  pretty  shoulders 
hunched. 

"You're  a  funny  man.    Do  you  know  it?" 
Though  inwardly  aghast,  I  strove  to  conceal 
my  agitation.     "Funny  in  what  way?" 

"Oh,  every  way.     Any  one  would  think — 3 
"What  would    any  one  think?"     I    insisted, 
nervously,  when  she  paused. 
"Oh,  well!     I  sha'n't  say." 
"Because  you're  afraid  to  hurt  my  feelings?" 
"I'm  a  good  sort — especially  among  people  of 
our  own  class.     For  the  others" — she  shrugged 
her   shoulders    charmingly — "I'm    an    anarchist 
and  a  socialist  and  all  that.     I  don't  care  who  I 
bring  down,  if  they're  up.     But  when  people  are 
down  already — I'm — I'm  a  friend." 

39 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

As  there  was  a  measure  of  invitation  in  these 
words  I  nerved  myself  to  approach  the  personal. 

"Are  you  friend  enough  to  tell  me  why  you 
thought  you  had  seen  me  in  Salt  Lake  City?" 

She  nodded.  "Sure;  because  I  did  think  so — 
there — or  somewhere." 

"Then  you  couldn't  swear  to  the  place?" 

"I  couldn't  swear  to  the  place;  but  I  could  to 
you.  I  never  forget  a  face  if  I  give  it  the  twice- 
over.  The  once-over — well,  then  I  may.  But 
if  I've  studied  a  man — the  least  little  bit — I've 
got  him  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"But  why  should  you  have  studied  me — as 
suming  that  it  was  me?" 

"Assuming  that  that  water's  the  ocean,  I  study 
it  because  there's  nothing  else  to  look  at.  We 
were  opposite  each  other  at  two  tables  in  a 


restaurant." 


"Was  there  nobody  ther^  but  just  you  and 
me?" 

"Yes,  there  was  a  lady." 

My  heart  gave  a  thump.  "At  your  table  or 
at  mine?" 

"At  yours." 

"Did  she" — I  was  aware  of  the  foolish  word 
ing  of  the  question  without  being  able  to  put  it  in 
any  other  way — "did  she  have  large  dark  eyes?" 

"Not  in  the  back  of  her  head,  which  was  all 
I  saw  of  her." 

Once  more  I  expressed  myself  stupidly.  "Did 
you — did  you  think  it  was — my  wife — or  just  a 
friend?" 

40 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "How  could  I  tell? 
You  speak  as  if  you  didn't  know.  You're  cer 
tainly  the  queerest  kid — " 

I  tried  to  recover  my  lost  ground.  "I  do  know, 
but- 

"Then  what  are  you  asking  me  for?" 

"Because  you  seem  to  have  watched  me — " 

"I  didn't  watch  you,"  she  denied,  indignantly. 
"The  idea!  You  sure  have  your  nerve  with  you. 
I  couldn't  help  seeing  a  guy  that  was  right  under 
my  eyes,  could  I  ?  Besides  which — " 

"Yes?     Besides  which—?"  I  insisted. 

She  brought  the  words  out  with  an  air  of  chaf 
fing  embarrassment.  "Well,  you  weren't  got  up 
as  you  are  now.  Do  you  know  it?" 

As  I  reddened  and  stammered  something  about 
the  war,  she  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm  soothingly. 

"There  now!  There  now!  That's  all  right. 
I  never  give  any  one  away.  You  can  see  for 
yourself  that  I  can't  have  knocked  about  the 
world  like  I've  done  without  running  up  against 
this  sort  of  thing  a  good  many  times — " 

"What  sort  of  thing?" 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  don't  know  I  needn't  tell  you. 
But  I'm  your  friend,  kid.  That's  all  I  want  you 
to  know.  It's  why  I  told  you  about  myself.  I 
wanted  you  to  see  that  we're  all  in  the  same  boat. 
Harry  Drinkwater's  your  friend,  too.  He  likes 
you.  You  stick  by  us  and  we'll  stick  by  you  and 
see  the  thing  through." 

It  was  on  my  lips  to  say,  "What  thing?"  but 
she  rattled  on  again. 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Only  you  can't  wear  that  sort  of  clothes  and 
get  away  with  it,  kid.  Do  you  know  it  ?  Another 
fellow  might,  but  you  simply  can't.  It  shows  you 
up  at  the  first  glance.  The  night  you  came  on 
board  you  might  just  as  well  have  marched  in 
carrying  a  blue  silk  banner.  For  Heaven's  sake, 
if  you've  got  anything  else  in  your  kit  go  and  put 


it  on." 


I  haven't." 

"Haven't?  What  on  earth  have  you  done 
with  all  the  swell  things  you  must  have  had? 
Burned  'em?" 

The  question  was  so  direct,  and  the  good-will 
behind  it  so  evident,  that  I  felt  I  must  give  an 
answer.  "Sold  them." 

"Got  down  to  that,  did  you?  What  do  you 
know?  Poor  little  kid!  Funny,  isn't  it?  A 
woman  can  carry  that  sort  of  thing  off  nine  times 
out  often;  but  a  fat-head  of  a  man — ': 

She  kept  the  sentence  suspended  while  gazing 
over  my  shoulder.  The  lips  remained  parted  as 
in  uttering  the  last  word.  I  was  about  to  turn 
to  see  what  so  entranced  her,  when  she  said,  in 
a  tone  of  awe  or  joy,  I  was  not  sure  which : 

"There's  that  poor  little  blind  boy  coming 
down  the  deck  all  by  himself.  You'll  excuse 
me,  won't  you,  if  I  run  and  help  him  ?" 

So  she  ran. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BEYOND  this  point  I  had  made  no  progress 
when  we  landed  in  New  York.  I  still  knew 
myself  as  Jasper  Soames.  Miss  Blair  still  sus 
pected  that  I  was  running  away  from  justice. 
That  I  was  running  away  from  justice  I  suspected 
myself,  since  how  could  I  do  otherwise:  All 
the  way  up  the  Bay  I  waited  for  that  tap  on  my 
shoulder  which  I  could  almost  have  welcomed 
for  the  reason  that  it  would  relieve  me  of  some 
of  my  embarrassments. 

Those  embarrassments  had  grown  more  en 
tangling  throughout  the  last  days  of  the  voyage. 
The  very  good-will  of  the  people  about  me  in 
creased  the  complications  in  which  I  was  finding 
myself  involved.  Every  one  asked  a  different 
set  of  questions,  the  answers  I  gave  being  not  al 
ways  compatible  with  each  other.  I  didn't  ex 
actly  lie;  I  only  replied  wildly — trying  to  guard 
my  secret  till  I  could  walk  off  the  boat  and  dis 
appear  from  the  ken  of  these  kindly  folk  who 
did  nothing  but  wish  me  well. 

I  accomplished  this  feat,  1  am  bound  to  con 
fess,  with  little  credit;  but  credit  was  not  my 
object.  All  I  asked  was  the  privilege  of  being 
alone,  with  leisure  to  take  stock  of  my  small 

43 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

assets  and  reckon  up  the  possibilities  before  me. 
As  it  was  incredible  that  a  man  such  as  I  was  could 
be  lost  on  the  threshold  of  his  home  I  needed  all 
the  faculties  that  remained  to  me  in  order  to 
think  out  the  ways  and  means  by  which  I  could 
be  found. 

So  alone  I  found  myself,  though  not  without 
resorting  to  ruses  of  which  I  was  even  then 
ashamed. 

It  was  Miss  Blair  who  scared  me  into  them. 
Coming  up  to  me  on  deck,  during  the  last  after 
noon  on  board,  she  said,  casually: 

"Going  to  stay  awhile  in  New  York?" 

It  was  a  renewal  of  the  everlasting  catechism, 
so  I  said,  curtly: 

"I  dare  say." 

"Oh,  don't  be  huffy!     Looking  for  a  job?" 

"Later,  perhaps;    not  at  once." 

In  her  smile,  as  her  eye  caught  mine,  there  was 
a  visible  significance.  "  You'll  be  a  good  kid, 
won't  you?  You'll — you'll  keep  on  the  level?" 

I  made  a  big  effort  on  my  own  part,  so  as  to 
see  how  she  would  take  it.  "If  I'm  not  nabbed 
going  up  the  Bay." 

"Oh,  you  won't  be.  It  can't  be  as — as  bad 
as  all  that.  Even  if  it  was—  She  left  this 
sentiment  for  me  to  guess  at  while  she  went  on. 
"Where  do  you  expect  to  stay?" 

I  was  about  to  name  one  of  New  York's  ex 
pensive  hotels  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  she 
would  burst  out  laughing  at  the  announcement. 
She  would  take  it  as  a  joke.  I  realized  then  that 

44 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

it  struck  me  also  as  a  joke.  It  was  incongruous 
not  only  with  my  appearance,  but  with  my  entire 
role  throughout  the  trip.  I  ended  by  replying 
that  I  hadn't  made  up  my  mind. 

"Well,  then,  if  you're  looking  for  a  place — " 

"I  can't  say  that  I'm  that." 

"Or  if  you  should  be,  I've  given  Harry  Drink- 
water  a  very  good  address." 

It  was  only  a  rooming-house,  she  explained  to 
me,  but  for  active  people  the  more  convenient 
for  that,  and  with  lots  of  good  cafes  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  She  told  me  of  one  in  particular — 
Alfonso  was  the  name  of  the  restaurateur — 
where  one  could  get  a  very  good  dinner,  with 
wine,  for  seventy-five  cents,  and  an  adequate 
breakfast  for  forty.  Moreover,  Miss  Blair  had 
long  known  the  lady  who  kept  the  rooming-house 
in  question,  a  friend  of  her  mother's  she  happened 
to  be,  and  any  one  whom  she,  Lydia  Blair,  sent 
with  her  recommendation  would  find  the  place 
O.  K. 

I  was  terrified.  I  didn't  mean  to  go  to  this  well- 
situated  dwelling,  "rather  far  west"  in  Thirty- 
fifth  Street;  I  only  had  visions  of  being  wafted 
there  against  my  will.  So  much  had  happened 
in  which  my  will  had  not  been  consulted  that  I 
was  afraid  of  the  kindliest  of  intentions.  When  at 
dinner  that  evening  Miss  Mulberry  apologized 
across  the  table  for  her  coldness  toward  me  dur 
ing  the  trip,  ascribing  it  to  a  peculiarity  of  hers 
in  never  making  gentlemen  friends  till  sure  they 
were  gentlemen,  and  offering  me  her  permanent 

45 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

address,  I  resolved  that  after  that  meal  none  of 
the  whole  group  should  catch  another  glimpse 
of  me. 

For  this  reason  I  escaped  to  my  cabin  directly 
after  dinner,  packed  my  humble  belongings,  and 
went  to  bed.  When,  toward  eleven,  Drinkwater 
came  down,  putting  the  question,  as  he  stumbled 
in,  "'Sleep,  Jasper?"  I  replied  with  a  faint  snore. 
For  the  last  two  or  three  days  he  had  been  scat 
tering  Jaspers  throughout  his  sentences,  and  I 
only  didn't  ask  him  to  give  up  the  practice  be 
cause  of  knowing  that  with  men  of  his  class 
familiarity  is  a  habit.  Besides,  it  would  be  all 
over  in  a  few  days,  so  that  I  might  as  well  take 
it  patiently. 

And  yet  I  was  sorry  that  it  had  to  be  so,  for 
something  had  made  me  like  him.  During  the 
days  of  the  equinoctial  bad  weather  it  had  fallen 
to  me  to  steer  him  about  the  staggering  ship,  and 
one  is  naturally  drawn  to  anything  helpless. 
Then,  too,  of  all  the  men  to  whom  I  ever  lent  a 
hand  he  was  the  most  demonstrative.  He  had 
a  boy's  way  of  pawing  you,  of  sprawling  over  you, 
of  giving  your  hand  little  twitches,  or  affectionate 
squeezes  to  your  arm.  There  was  no  liberty  he 
wouldn't  take;  but  when  he  took  them  they 
didn't  seem  to  be  liberties.  If  I  betrayed  a 
hint  of  annoyance  he  would  pat  me  on  any  part 
of  my  person  he  happened  to  touch,  with  some 
such  soothing  words  as: 

"There,  there,  poor  'ittle  Jasper!  Let  him 
come  to  his  muvverums  and  have  his  'ittle  cry." 

46 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

But  I  had  to  turn  my  back  on  him.  There 
was  no  help  for  it.  I  understood,  however,  that 
people  in  his  class  were  less  sensitive  to  dis 
courtesy  than  those  in  mine.  They  were  used 
to  it.  True,  he  was  blind;  but  then  it  was  not 
to  be  expected  that  I  should  look  after  every 
blind  man  I  happened  to  run  against  in  travel 
ing.  Besides  all  this,  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
what  I  meant  to  do,  and  refused  to  discuss  it 
further  even  with  myself. 

He  was  hoisting  himself  to  the  upper  bunk 
when  he  made  a  second  attempt  to  draw  me. 

"You'll  have  people  to  meet  you  to-morrow 
morning?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  I  grunted,  sleepily. 
"Some  of  'em  will  be  there."  A  second  or  two 
having  passed,  I  felt  it  necessary  to  add,  "Same 
with  you,  I  suppose?" 

He  replied  from  overhead.  "Sure!  Two  or 
three  of  the  guys  '11  be  jazzing  round  the  dock. 
There'll  be — a — Jack — and — a — Jim — and — a — 
well,  a  pile  of  'em."  He  was  snuggling  down 
into  his  pillow  as  he  wound  up  with  a  hearty, 
"Say,  Jasper,  I'll  be— I'll  be  all  right— I'll  be 
fait." 

Deciding  that  I  wouldn't  call  this  bluff,  I 
turned  and  went  to  sleep.  Up  with  dawn,  I 
slipped  out  of  the  cabin  before  the  blind  man  had 
stirred.  Early  rising  got  its  reward  in  a  morning 
of  silver  tissue.  Silver  tissue  was  flung  over  the 
Bay,  woven  into  the  air,  and  formed  all  we  could 
see  of  the  sky.  Taking  my  place  as  far  toward 

47 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  bow  as  I  could  get,  I  watched  till  two  straight 
lines  forming  a  right  angle  appeared  against  the 
mist,  after  which,  magical,  pearly,  spiritual, 
white  in  whiteness,  tower  in  cloud,  the  great  city 
began  to  show  itself  through  the  haze,  like  some 
thing  born  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Having  nothing  to  carry  but  my  bag  and  suit 
case,  I  was  almost  the  first  on  shore.  So,  too,  I 
must  have  been  the  first  of  the  passengers  ready 
to  leave  the  dock.  But  two  things  detained  me, 
just  as  I  was  going  to  take  my  departure. 

The  first  was  fear.  It  came  without  warning 
—a  fear  of  solitude,  of  the  city,  of  the  danger  of 
arrest,  of  the  first  steps  to  be  taken.  I  was  like 
a  sick  man  who  hasn't  realized  how  weak  he  is 
till  getting  out  of  bed.  I  had  picked  up  my  bags 
after  the  custom-house  officer  had  passed  them, 
to  walk  out  of  the  pen  under  the  letter  S,  when 
the  thought  of  what  I  was  facing  suddenly  ap 
palled  me.  Dropping  my  load  to  the  dusty 
floor,  I  sank  on  the  nearest  trunk. 

I  have  read  in  some  English  book  of  reminis 
cences  the  confession  of  dread  on  the  part  of  a 
man  released  after  fifteen  years'  imprisonment 
on  first  going  into  the  streets.  The  crowds,  the 
horses,  the  drays,  the  motors,  the  clamor  and 
clang,  struck  him  as  horrific.  For  joining  the 
blatant,  hideous  procession  already  moving  from 
the  dock  I  was  no  more  equipped  than  Minerva 
would  have  been  on  the  day  when  she  sprang, 
full-grown  and  fully  armed,  from  her  father's  head. 

Looking  up  the  long  lines  of  pens,  I  could  see 
48 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Miss  Blair  steering  Dnnkwater  from  the  gang 
way  toward  the  letter  D.  I  noticed  his  move 
ments  as  reluctant  and  terrified.  The  din  I 
found  appalling  even  with  the  faculty  of  sight 
must  have  been  menacing  to  him  in  his  dark 
ness.  He  was  still  trying  to  take  it  with  a  laugh, 
but  the  merriment  had  become  frozen. 

Seizing  my  two  bags  again,  I  ran  up  the  line. 

"Oh,  you  dear  old  kid!"  Miss  Blair  exclaimed, 
as  I  came  within  speaking  distance,  "I'm  sure 
glad  to  see  you.  I  was  afraid  you'd  been — " 

Knowing  her  suspicion,  I  cut  in  on  her  fear. 
"No;  it  didn't  happen.  I — got  off  the  boat  all 
right.  I — I've  just  been  looking  after  my  things 
and  ran  back  to  see  if  there  was  anything  I  could 
do—" 

"Bless  you!  There's  everything  you  can  do. 
Harry's  been  crying  for  you  like  a  baby  for  its 


nurse." 


"Where  is  he?" 

The  words  were  his.  Confused  by  the  hub 
bub,  he  was  clawing  in  the  wrong  direction,  so 
that  the  grab  with  which  he  seized  me  was  like 
that  of  a  strayed  child  on  clutching  a  friendly 
hand. 

In  the  end  I  was  in  a  taxicab,  bound  for  the 
rooming-house  "rather  far  west"  in  Thirty-fifth 
Street,  with  my  charge  by  my  side. 

"Say,  isn't  this  the  grandest!" 

The  accent  was  so  sincere  that  I  laughed.     We 
were  out  in  the  sunlight  by  this  time,  plowing  our 
way  through  the  squalor. 
4  49 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What's  grand  about  it?" 

"Oh,  well,  Miss  Blair  finding  me  that  house  to 
go  to — and  you  going  along  with  me — and  the 
doctor  coming  to  see  me  to-morrow  to  talk  about 
a  job— " 

"What  job?" 

"Oh,  some  job.  There'll  be  one.  You'll  see. 
I've  got  the  darnedest  good  luck  a  guy  was  ever 
born  with — all  except  my  name." 

"What  about  the  fellows  you  said  would  be 
jazzing  around  the  dock  to  meet  you?" 

I  was  sorry  for  that  bit  of  cruelty  before  it  had 
got  into  words.  It  was  one  of  the  rare  occasions 
on  which  I  ever  saw  his  honest  pug-face  fall. 

"Say,  you  didn't  believe  that,  did  you?" 

"You  said  it." 

"Oh,  well,  I  say  lots  of  things.     Have  to." 

We  jolted  on  till  a  block  in  the  traffic  enabled 
him  to  continue  without  the  difficulty  of  speak 
ing  against  noise.  "Look  here!  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  something.  It's — it's  a  secret.'5 

"Then  for  Heaven's  sake  keep  it." 

"I  want  you  to  know  it.  I  don't  want  to  be 
your  friend  under  false  pretenses." 

It  seemed  to  me  an  opportunity  to  clarify  the 
situation.  We  were  on  land.  We  were  in  New 
York.  It  was  hardly  fair  to  these  good  people 
to  let  them  think  that  our  association  could  con 
tinue  on  the  same  terms  as  at  sea.  Somewhere 
in  the  back  of  my  strained  mind  was  the  fact  that 
I  had  formerly  classed  myself  as  a  snob  and  had 
been  proud  of  the  appellation.  That  is,  I  had 

50 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

been  fastidious  as  to  whom  I  should  know  and 
whom  I  should  not  know.  I  had  been  an  adept 
in  the  art  of  cutting  those  who  had  been  forced 
or  had  forced  themselves  upon  me,  and  had  re 
garded  this  skill  as  an  accomplishment.  Find 
ing  myself  on  board  ship,  and  in  a  peculiar  sit 
uation,  I  had  carried  myself  as  a  gentleman 
should,  even  toward  Mr.  Finnegan  and  Miss 
Mulberry. 

That  part  had  been  relatively  easy.  It  was 
more  difficult  to  dispose  of  the  kindly  interest 
of  the  Averills.  He  had  made  more  than  one 
approach  which  I  parried  tactfully.  Mrs.  Aver- 
ill  had  contented  herself  with  disquieting  looks 
from  her  almond  eyes,  though  one  day  she  had 
stopped  me  on  deck  with  the  condescending  in 
quiries  as  to  my  health  that  one  puts  to  a 
friend's  butler.  Miss  Averill  had  been  more 
direct — sensible,  solicitous,  and  rich  in  a  shy 
sympathy.  One  day,  on  entering  the  saloon, 
I  found  her  examining  some  rugs  which  a 
Persian  passenger  was  displaying  in  the  inter 
ests  of  trade.  Being  called  by  her  into  coun 
cil,  I  helped  her  to  choose  between  a  Herati  and 
a  Sarouk,  the  very  names  of  which  she  had  never 
heard.  My  connoisseurship  impressed  her.  Af 
ter  that  she  spoke  to  me  frequently,  and  once 
recommended  the  employment  bureau  of  her 
Settlement,  in  case  I  were  looking  for  work. 

All  this  I  had  struggled  with,  sometimes  irri 
tated,  sometimes  grimly  amused,  but  always  ill 
at  ease.  Now  it  was  over.  I  should  never  see 

Si 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  Averills  again,  and  Drinkwater  must  be  given 
to  understand  that  he,  too,  was  an  incident. 

"My  dear  fellow,  there  are  no  pretenses.  We 
simply  met  on  board  ship,  and  because  of  your — 
your  accident  I'm  seeing  you  to  your  door. 
That's  all.  It  doesn't  constitute  friendship." 

"You  bet  it  does,"  was  his  unexpected  re 
joinder.  "I'm  not  that  kind  at  all.  When  a  fel 
low's  white  with  me,  he's  white.  I'm  not  going 
to  be  ashamed  of  him.  If  you  ever  want  any 
one  to  hold  the  sponge  for  you,  Jasper — " 

I  repeated  stupidly,  "Hold  the  sponge?" 

"Go  bail  for  you — do  anything.  I  couldn't 
go  bail  for  you  on  my  own,  of  course;  but  I 
could  hustle  round  and  get  some  one  to  do  it. 
Lydia  Blair  knows  a  lot  of  people — and  there's 
the  doctor.  Say,  Jasper,  I'm  your  friend,  and 
I'm  going  to  stand  by  the  contract." 

The  taxi  lumbered  on  again,  while  I  was  de 
bating  with  myself  as  to  what  to  say  next,  or 
whether  or  not  to  say  anything.  One  thing  was 
clear,  that  no  matter  what  fate  awaited  me  I 
couldn't  have  Drinkwater  holding  the  sponge 
for  me,  nor  could  I  appear  in  court,  or  anywhere 
else,  with  a  man  of  his  class  as  my  backer. 

We  were  lurching  into  Broadway  when  he 
grasped  me  suddenly  by  the  arm,  to  say: 

"Look  here,  Jasper!  To  show  what  I  think 
of  you  I'm  going  to  make  you  listen  to  that  se 
cret.  I — I  wasn't  expecting  any  one  to  meet 
me.  There's  no  one  to  meet  me.  Do  you  get 
that?" 

52 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  said  that  I  got  it,  but  found  nothing  peculiar 
in  the  situation. 

"Oh,  but  there  is,  though.  IVe  got — I've  got 
no  friends — not  so  much  as  a  father  or  a  mother. 
I  never  did  have.  I  was — I  was  left  in  a  basket 
on  a  door-step — twenty-three  years  ago — and 
brought  up  in  an  orphans'  home  in  Texas.  There, 
youVe  got  it  straight!  IVe  passed  you  up  the 
one  and  only  dope  on  Harry  Drinkwater,  and 
any  guy  that's  afraid  he  can't  be  my  friend  with 
out  wearing  a  dress-suit  to  breakfast — " 

It  was  so  delicate  a  method  of  telling  me  that 
I  was  as  good  as  he  was  that  it  seemed  best  to 
let  the  subject  of  our  future  relations  drop.  They 
would  settle  themselves  when  I  had  carried  out 
the  plan  that  had  already  begun  to  dawn  in  me. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MISS  GOLDIE  FLOWERDEW,  for  that  was 
the  name  on  our  note  of  introduction,  was 
at  home,  but  kept  us  waiting  in  a  room  where  I 
made  my  first  study  of  a  rooming-house.  It  was 
another  indication  of  what  I  had  not  been  in  my 
past  life  that  a  rooming-house  was  new  to  me. 

This  particular  room  must  in  the  'sixties  have 
been  the  parlor  of  some  prim  and  prosperous 
family.  It  was  long,  narrow,  dark,  with  dark 
carpets,  and  dark  coverings  to  the  chairs.  Dark 
pictures  hung  on  dark  walls,  and  dark  objets  d'art 
adorned  a  terrifying  chimneypiece  in  black  mar 
ble.  Folding-doors  shut  us  off  from  a  back  room 
that  was  probably  darker  still;  and  through  the 
interstices  of  the  shrunken  woodwork  we  could 
hear  a  vague  rustling. 

The  rustling  gave  place  to  a  measured  step, 
which  finally  proceeded  from  the  room  and 
sounded  along  the  hall,  as  if  taken  to  the  rhythm 
of  a  stone  march  like  that  in  "Don  Giovanni," 
when  the  statue  of  the  Commander  comes  down 
from  its  pedestal.  My  companion  and  I  in 
stinctively  stood  up,  divining  the  approach  of  a 
Presence. 

54 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

The  Presence  was  soon  on  the  threshold,  doing 
justice  to  the  epithet.  The  statue  of  the  Com 
mander,  dressed  in  the  twentieth-century  style 
of  sweet  sixteen  and  crowned  by  a  shock  of 
bleached  hair  of  tempestuous  wave,  would  have 
looked  like  Miss  Goldie  Flowerdew  as  she  stood 
before  us  majestically,  fingering  our  note  of 
introduction. 

"So  she's  not  coming,"  was  her  only  observa 
tion,  delivered  in  a  voice  so  deep  that,  like  Mrs. 
Siddons's  "Will  it  wash?"  it  startled. 

"Did  you  expect  her?"  I  ventured  to  say. 

The  sepulchral  voice  spoke  again.  "Which  is 
the  blind  one?" 

Drinkwater  moved  forward.  She,  too,  moved 
forward,  coming  into  the  room  and  scanning  him 
face  to  face. 

"You  don't  look  so  awful  blind." 

"No,  but  I  am — for  the  present." 

"For  the  present?  Does  that  mean  that  you 
expect  to  regain  your  sight?" 

"The  doctors  say  that  it  may  come  back  as 
suddenly  as  it  went." 

"And  suppose  it  don't?" 

"Oh,  well,  I've  got  along  without  it  for  the 
past  six  months,  so  I  suppose  I  can  do  it  for  the 
next  sixty  years.  I've  given  it  a  good  try,  and 
in  some  ways  I  like  it." 

"You  do,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  lady." 

"Then,"  she  declared,  in  her  tragic  voice,  "I 
like  you." 

55. 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

He  flushed  like  a  girl  flushes,  though  his  grin 
was  his  own  specialty. 

"Say/'  he  began,  in  confidential  glee,  "Miss 
Blair  said  you  would — " 

"Tell  Lydia  Blair  that  she's  at  liberty  to  be 
stow  her  affections  when  and  as  she  chooses;  but 
beg  her  to  be  kind  enough  to  allow  me  to  dispose 
of  mine.  You'd  like  to  see  her  room." 

She  was  turning  to  begin  her  stone  march  tow 
ard  the  stairs,  but  Drinkwater  held  her  back. 

"Say,  lady,  is  it — is  it  her  room?" 

"Certainly;  it's  the  one  she's  always  had  when 
she's  been  with  me,  and  which  she  reserved  by 
letter  four  weeks  ago.  I  was  to  expect  her  as 
soon  as  the  steamer  docked." 

"Oh,  then — "  the  boy  began  to  stammer. 

"Nonsense,  my  good  man!  Don't  be  foolish. 
She's  gone  elsewhere  and  the  room  is  to  let.  If 
she  hadn't  sent  me  some  one  I  would  have 
charged  her  a  week's  rent;  but  now  that  she's 
got  me  a  tenant  she's  at  liberty  to  go  where  she 
likes.  She  knows  I'd  rather  have  men  than 
women  at  any  time  of  day." 

"Oh,  but  if  it's  her  room,  and  she's  given  it 
up  for  me — " 

"It  isn't  her  room;  it's  mine.  I  can  let  it  to 
any  one  I  please.  She  knows  of  a  dozen  places 
in  the  city  that  she'll  like  just  as  well  as  this,  so 
don't  think  she'll  be  on  the  street.  Come  along; 
I've  no  time  to  waste." 

"Better  go,"  I  whispered,  taking  him  by  the 
arm,  so  that  the  procession  started. 

56 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

The  hall  was  papered  in  deep  crimson,  against 
which  a  monumental  black-walnut  hat-and- 
umbrella  stand  was  visible  chiefly  because  of  the 
gleam  of  an  inset  mirror.  The  floors  were  painted 
in  the  darkest  shade  of  brown,  in  keeping  with 
the  massive  body  of  the  staircase.  Up  the  stair 
case,  as  along  the  hall,  ran  a  strip  of  deep  crimson 
carpet,  exposing  the  warp  on  the  edge  of  each 
step. 

A  hush  of  solemnity  lay  over  everything. 
Clearly  Miss  Flowerdew's  roomers  were  off"  for 
the  day,  and  the  place  left  to  her  and  the  little 
colored  maid  who  had  admitted  us.  Drink- 
water  and  I  made  our  way  upward  in  a  kind  of 
awe,  he  clinging  to  my  arm,  frightened  and  yet 
adventurous. 

The  long,  steep  stairs  curved  toward  the  top 
to  an  upper  hall  darker  than  that  below,  because 
the  one  window  was  in  ground  glass  with  a  border 
of  red  and  blue.  Deep  crimson  was  again  the 
dominating  color,  broken  only  by  the  doors  which 
may  have  been  mahogany.  All  doors  were 
closed  except  the  one  nearest  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
which  stood  ajar.  Miss  Flowerdew  pushed  it 
open,  bidding  us  follow  her. 

We  were  on  the  spot  which  above  all  others 
in  the  world  Lydia  Blair  called  home.  When 
the  exquisite  bit  of  jewel-weed  drifted  past  me 
on  the  deck  of  the  Auvergne  this  haven  was 
in  the  background  of  her  memory. 

Through  the  gloom  two  iron  beds,  covered  with 
coarse  white  counterpanes,  sagged  in  the  out- 

57 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

lines  of  their  mattresses,  as  beds  do  after  a  great 
many  people  have  slept  in  them.  A  low  wicker 
armchair  sagged  in  the  seat  as  armchairs  do 
after  a  great  many  people  have  sat  in  them.  A 
great  many  people  had  passed  through  this  room, 
wearing  it  down,  wearing  it  out;  and  yet  there 
was  a  woman  in  the  world  whose  soul  leaped 
toward  it  as  the  hearth  of  her  affections.  Because 
it  was  architecturally  dark  a  paper  of  olive-green 
arabesques  on  an  olive-green  background  had 
been  glued  on  the  walls  to  make  it  darker  still; 
and  because  it  was  now  as  dark  as  it  could  be 
made,  the  table,  the  chest  of  drawers,  the  wash- 
stand,  like  the  doors,  were  all  of  the  darkest 
brown.  Miss  Flowerdew  pointed  to  their  bare 
tops  to  say: 

"Lydia  has  her  own  covers,  and  when  she  puts 
her  photographs  and  knickknacks  round  it  makes 
a  home  for  her." 

"Say,  isn't  it  grand!"  Drinkwater  cried,  look 
ing  round  with  his  sightless  eyes. 

"It's  grand  for  the  money,"  Miss  Flowerdew 
corrected.  "It's  not  the  Waldorf-Astoria,  nor 
yet  is  it  what  I  was  used  to  when  on  the  stage; 
but  it's  clean" — which  it  was — "and  only  respec 
table  people  have  roomed  here.  Come,  young 
man,  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  find  your  way." 

Miss  Flowerdew  may  have  been  on  the  stage, 
but  she  ought  to  have  been  a  nurse.  Not  even 
Lydia  Blair  could  take  hold  of  a  helpless  man 
with  such  tenderness  of  strength.  Holding 
Drinkwater  by  the  hand,  she  showed  him  how 

58 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

to  find  the  conveniences  of  this  nest,  pointing 
out  the  fact  that  the  bath-room  was  the  first  door 
on  the  right  as  you  went  into  the  hall,  and  only 
a  step  away. 

"I  hope  I  sha'n't  give  you  any  more  trou 
ble,  lady,  after  this,"  the  blind  boy  breathed, 
gratefully. 

"Trouble!  Of  course  you'll  give  me  trouble! 
The  man  who  doesn't  give  a  woman  trouble  is 
not  a  man.  I've  had  male  roomers  so  neat  and 
natty  you'd  have  sworn  they  were  female  ones — 
and  I  got  rid  of  'em.  When  a  man  doesn't  know 
whether  to  put  his  boots  on  the  mantelpiece  or 
in  the  wash-basin  when  he  takes  them  off,  I  can 
see  I've  got  something  to  take  care  of.  I  guess 
I  may  as  well  cart  these  away." 

The  reference  was  to  two  photographs  that 
stood  on  the  ledges  of  the  huge  black-walnut 
mirror. 

"I  put  'em  out  to  give  Lydia  a  home  feeling 
as  soon  as  she  arrived.  That's  her  father,  Byron 
Blair,"  she  continued,  handing  me  the  picture 
of  an  extremely  good-looking,  weak-faced  man 
of  the  Dundreary  type,  "and  that's  her  mother, 
Tillie  Lightwood,  as  she  was  when  she  and  I 
starred  in  'The  Wages  of  Sin/>:  I  examined  the 
charming  head,  with  profile  overweighted  by  a 
chignon,  while  Miss  Flowerdew  continued  her 
reminiscences.  "I  played  Lady  Somberly  to 
Tillie's  Lottie  Gwynne  for  nearly  three  years 
on  end,  first  here,  on  Broadway,  and  then  on 
the  road.  Don't  do  you  any  good,  playing  the 

59 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

same  part  so  long.  Easy  work  and  money,  but 
you  get  the  mannerisms  fixed  on  you.  I  was  a 
good  utility  woman  up  to  that  time;  but  when  I 
came  back  to  Broadway  I  was  Lady  Somberly. 
I  never  could  get  rid  of  her,  and  so  ...  I'll 
show  you  some  of  my  notices  and  photographs 
— no,  not  to-day;  but  when  you  come  round  to 
see  your  friend — that  is"— she  looked  inquir 
ingly — "that  is,  if  you  don't  -mean  to  use  the 
other  bed." 

This  being  the  hint  I  needed,  I  took  it.  With 
the  briefest  of  farewells  I  was  out  on  the  pave 
ment  with  my  bags  in  my  hands,  walking  east 
ward  without  a  goal. 

Once  more  I  had  to  stifle  my  concern  as  to 
Drinkwater.  I  saw  him,  when  Miss  Flowerdew 
would  have  gone  down-stairs,  sitting  alone  in 
his  darkness,  with  nothing  to  do.  His  trunk, 
the  unpacking  of  which  would  give  him  some 
occupation,  would  not  arrive  until  evening;  and 
in  the  mean  time  he  would  have  no  one  but  him 
self  for  company.  He  couldn't  go  out;  it  would 
be  all  he  could  do  to  feel  his  way  to  the  bath 
room  and  back,  though  even  that  small  excursion 
would  be  a  break  in  his  monotony.  .  .  . 

But  I  took  these  thoughts  and  choked  them. 
It  was  preposterous  that  I  should  hold  myself 
responsible  for  the  comfort  of  a  boy  met  by  chance 
on  a  steamer.  Had  I  taken  him  in  charge  from 
affection  or  philanthropy  it  would  have  been 
all  very  well;  but  I  had  no  philanthropic 
promptings,  and,  while  I  liked  him,  I  was  far 

60 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

from  taking  this  wavering  sympathy  as  affection. 
I  was  sorry  for  him,  of  course;  but  others  must 
take  care  of  him.  I  should  have  all  I  could  do 
in  taking  care  of  myself. 

So  I  wandered  on,  hardly  noticing  at  first  the 
way  I  took,  and  then  consciously  looking  for  a 
hotel.  As  to  that,  I  had  definitely  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  go  to  any  of  those  better  known, 
though  the  names  of  several  remained  in  my 
memory,  till  I  had  properly  clothed  myself. 
Though  in  a  measure  I  had  grown  used  to  my 
appearance,  I  caught  the  occasional  turning  of 
a  head  to  look  at  me,  and  once  the  eyebrows  of 
a  passer-by  went  up  in  amused  surprise. 

I  discovered  quickly  enough  that  I  knew  New 
York  and  that  I  knew  it  tolerably  well;  and  al 
most  as  quickly  I  learned  that  I  knew  it  not  as 
a  resident,  but  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
visitor.  Now  that  I  was  there,  I  could  see  my 
self  always  coming  and  always  going.  From 
what  direction  I  had  come  and  in  what  direction 
I  turned  on  leaving  still  were  mysteries.  But 
the  conviction  of  having  no  abiding  tie  with  this 
city  was  as  strong  as  that  of  the  spectator  in  a 
theater  of  having  no  permanent  connection  with 
the  play. 

Coming  on  a  modest  hotel  at  last,  I  made  bold 
to  go  in,  finding  myself  in  a  lobby  of  imitation 
onyx  and  an  atmosphere  heavy  with  tobacco. 
I  crossed  to  the  desk,  under  the  eyes  of  some 
three  or  four  colored  boys  who  didn't  offer  to 
assist  me  with  my  bags,  and  applied  for  a  room. 

61 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

A  courteous  young  man  of  Slavic  nationality  re 
gretted  that  they  were  "full  up."  I  marched 
out  again. 

Repeating  this  experience  at  another  and 
another,  I  was  saved  from  doing  it  at  a  fourth 
by  a  uniformed  darky  porter,  who,  as  I  was 
about  to  go  up  the  steps,  shook  his  head,  at 
the  same  time  sketching  in  the  air  an  oval  which 
I  took  to  be  a  zero.  I  didn't  go  in,  but  1  was  oddly 
disconcerted.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  till 
then  that  hotels  had  a  choice  in  guests,  just  as 
guests  had  a  choice  in  hotels.  I  had  always 
supposed  that  a  man  who  could  pay  could  com 
mand  a  welcome  anywhere;  but  here  I  was,  with 
nearly  four  hundred  dollars  in  my  pockets,  un 
able  to  find  a  lodging  because  something  strange 
in  my  clothes,  or  my  eyes,  or  in  my  general 
demeanor,  or  in  all  together,  stamped  me  as 
unusual.  "Who's  that  freak?"  I  heard  one 
bell-boy  ask  another,  and  the  term  seemed  to 
brand  me. 

The  day  was  muggy.  After  the  keen  sea  air 
it  was  breathless.  When  I  could  walk  no  longer 
I  staggered  into  a  humble  eating-house  that 
seemed  to  be  half  underground.  There  was  no 
one  there  but  two  waitresses,  one  of  whom,  wear 
ing  her  hair  a  la  madone,  came  forward  as  I  closed 
the  door.  She  did  not,  however,  come  forward 
so  quickly  but  that  I  heard  her  say  to  her  com 
panion,  "Well,  of  all  the  nuts—!"  The  ob 
servation,  though  breathlessly  suspended  there, 
made  me  shy  about  ordering  my  repast. 

62 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

And  when  it  came  I  couldn't  eat  it.  It  was 
good  enough,  doubtless,  but  coarse  and  ill  served. 
I  think  the  young  lady  who  found  me  a  nut  was 
sorry  for  me  when  it  came  to  close  quarters,  for 
she  did  her  best  to  coax  my  appetite  with  other 
kind  suggestions.  All  I  could  do  in  response  was 
to  flourish  the  roll  of  notes  into  which  I  had 
changed  my  French  money  on  board  and  give 
her  an  amazing  tip. 

But  a  new  decision  had  come  to  me  while  I 
strove  to  eat,  and  on  making  my  way  up  to  day 
light  again  I  set  out  to  put  it  into  operation. 
Reaching  Broadway,  I  drifted  southward  till  I 
came  on  one  of  the  large  establishments  for  ready- 
to-wear  clothing  which  I  knew  were  to  be  found 
in  the  neighborhood.  On  entering  the  vast  em 
porium  I  adopted  a  new  manner.  No  longer 
shrinking  as  I  had  shrunk  since  waking  to  the 
fact  of  my  misfortune,  I  walked  briskly  up  to  the 
first  man  whom  I  saw  at  a  distance  eying  me 
haughtily. 

"See  here,"  I  said,  in  a  good-mixer  voice,  "I've 
just  got  back  from  France,  and  look  at  the  way 
they've  rigged  me  out.  Was  in  hospital  there, 
after  I'd  got  all  kinds  of  shock,  and  this  is  the 
best  I  could  do  without  coming  back  to  God's 
country  in  a  French  uniform.  Now  I  want  to 
see  the  best  you  can  do  and  how  pretty  you  can 
make  me  look." 

On  emerging  I  was,  therefore,  passable  to 
glance  at,  and  after  a  hair-cut  and  a  shave  I  was 
no  longer  afraid  to  see  my  reflection  in  a  glass. 

63 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  had,  too,  another  inspiration.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  I  might  startle  myself  into  finding  the 
way  home.  Calling  a  taxi,  I  drove  boldly  with 
my  bags  to  the  Grand  Central  Terminal,  trusting 
to  the  inner  voice  to  tell  me  the  place  for  which 
to  buy  my  ticket.  With  half  the  instinct  of  a 
horse  my  feet  might  take  the  road  to  the  stable 
of  their  own  accord. 

I  recognized  the  station  and  all  its  ways — the 
red-capped  colored  men,  the  white-capped  white 
ones,  the  subterranean  shops,  the  gaunt  marble 
spaces.  I  recognized  the  windows  at  which  I 
must  have  taken  tickets  hundreds  of  times,  and 
played  my  comedy  by  walking  up  first  to  one  and 
then  to  another,  waiting  for  the  inner  voice  to 
give  me  a  tip.  I  found  nothing  but  blank  si 
lence.  The  world  was  all  before  me  where  to 
choose — only  Providence  was  not  my  guide.  Or 
if  Providence  was  my  guide,  His  thread  of  flame 
was  not  visible. 

I  suppose  that  in  that  station  that  afternoon 
I  was  like  any  other  man  intending  to  take  a 
train.  At  least  I  could  say  that.  So  pleased 
was  I  with  myself  that  more  than  once  during 
the  two  hours  of  my  test  I  went  into  the  station 
lavatory  just  for  the  sake  of  seeing  myself  in  the 
glass.  It  was  a  long  glass,  capable  of  reflecting 
some  dozen  men  at  a  time,  and  I  was  as  like  the 
rest  as  one  elephant  is  like  another.  Oh,  that 
relief!  Oh,  that  joy!  Not  to  be  a  freak  or  a  nut 
made  up  for  the  moment  for  my  sense  of  home- 
lessness. 

64 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

When  tired  of  listening  for  a  call  that  didn't 
come,  I  went  into  the  waiting-room  and  sat  down. 
Again  I  was  like  all  the  other  people  doing  the 
same  thing.  Propped  up  by  a  bag  on  each  side, 
I  might  have  been  waiting  for  a  train  to  any  of 
the  suburbs.  I  might  have  had  a  family  ex 
pecting  me  to  supper.  The  obvious  reflection 
came  to  me.  To  all  whose  glances  happened  to 
fall  on  me  I  was  no  more  than  an  unstoried  human 
spot;  and  yet  behind  me  was  a  history  that 
would  have  startled  any  one  of  them.  So  they 
were  unstoried  human  spots  to  me;  and  yet  be 
hind  each  of  them  there  lay  a  drama  of  which 
I  could  read  no  more  than  I  could  see  of  the 
world  of  light  beyond  the  speck  I  called  a  star. 
Was  there  a  Providence  for  me,  or  them,  or  any 
other  strayed,  homeless  dog?  As  I  glanced  at  the 
faces  before  me,  faces  of  tired  women,  faces  of 
despondent  men,  young  faces  hardened,  old  faces 
stupefied,  all  faces  stamped  with  the  age-long 
soddenness  of  man,  I  asked  if  anywhere  in  the 
universe  love  could  be  holding  up  the  lamps  to 
them. 

Like  millions  of  others  who  have  asked  this 
question,  I  felt  that  I  had  my  trouble  for  my  pains; 
but  I  got  another  inspiration.  As  it  was  now  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  folly  of  expecting  help 
from  the  inner  voice  became  apparent.  I  must 
resort  to  some  other  expedient,  and  the  new 
suggestion  was  a  simple  one. 

Checking  my  bags  in  the  parcel-office,  I  made 
for  the  nearest  great  hotel.  The  hall  with  its 
5  65 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

colossal  furnishings  was  familiar  from  the  mo 
ment  of  my  entry.  The  same  ever  so  slightly 
overdressed  ladies  might  have  been  mincing  up 
and  down  as  on  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit  there; 
the  same  knots  of  men  might  have  begun  to 
gather;  the  same  orchestra  might  have  been  jig 
ging  the  same  tunes;  if  only  the  same  men  were 
at  the  office  desk  I  might  find  my  ingenuity  re 
warded. 

"I  wonder  if  there  are  any  letters  for  me  here? 
Fm  not  staying  in  the  house;  but  I  thought — " 

"Name?" 

No  one  said,  as  I  hoped,  "I'll  see,  Mr.  Smith," 
or,  "I'll  find  out,  Mr.  Jones,"  as  often  happens 
when  a  man  has  been  a  well-known  guest. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  a  spot  where  strangers 
from  other  places  congregated,  and  I  knew  that 
in  the  lobbies  of  hotels  one  often  met  old 
friends.  I  might  meet  one  of  mine.  Better  still, 
one  of  mine  might  meet  me.  At  any  minute 
I  might  feel  a  clap  on  the  shoulder,  while  some 
one  shouted,  "Hello,  old  Brown!"  or,  "Why, 
here's  Billy  Robinson!  What'll  we  have  to 
drink?"  These  had  been  familiar  salutations 
and  might  become  so  again. 

So  I  walked  up  and  down.  I  was  sorry  I  had 
neither  stick  nor  gloves,  but  promised  to  supply 
the  lack  at  once.  In  the  mean  time  I  could  thrust 
my  hands  into  my  pockets  and  look  like  a  gen 
tleman  at  ease  because  he  is  at  home.  Having 
enjoyed  this  sport  for  an  hour  or  more,  I  went  out 
to  make  my  purchases. 

66 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Fortified  with  these,  I  repeated  my  comedy  in 
another  hotel,  and  presently  in  a  third.  In  each 
I  began  with  the  same  formula  of  asking  for 
letters;  and  in  each  I  got  the  same  response, 
"Name?"  In  each  I  receded  with  a  polite, 
"Never  mind.  I  don't  think  there  can  be  any, 
after  all."  In  each  I  paraded  up  and  down  and 
in  and  out,  courting  the  glances  of  head  waiters, 
bell-hops,  and  lift-men,  alwc,  rs  in  the  hope  of  a 
recognition  and  a  "How  do,  Mr.  So-and-so?" 
that  never  came. 

But  by  six  o'clock  the  game  had  played  itself 
out  for  the  day  and  I  was  not  only  tired,  but  de 
pressed.  I  was  not  discouraged,  for  the  reason 
that  New  York  was  full  of  big  hotels,  and  I  meant 
to  begin  my  tramp  on  the  morrow.  There  were 
clubs,  too,  into  which  on  one  pretext  or  another 
I  could  force  my  way,  and  there  were  also 
the  great  thoroughfares.  Some  hundreds  of  peo 
ple  in  New  York  at  that  moment  would  prob 
ably  have  recognized  me  at  a  glance — if  I  could 
only  come  face  to  face  with  them.  All  my  ef 
forts  for  the  next  few  weeks  must  be  bent  on 
doing  that. 

But  in  the  mean  time  I  was  tired  and  lonely. 
There  were  two  or  three  things  I  might  do,  each 
of  which  I  had  promised  to  myself  with  some 
anticipation.  I  could  go  to  a  good  restaurant  and 
order  a  good  feed ;  I  could  go  to  a  good  hotel  and 
sleep  in  a  good  bed;  I  could  buy  the  evening 
papers  and  find  out  what  kind  of  world  I  was 
living  in. 

67 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

As  to  carrying  out  this  program,  I  had  but  one 
prudential  misgiving.  It  might  cost  more  money 
than  it  would  be  wise  for  me  to  spend.  My  visit 
to  the  purveyor  of  clothing  in  the  afternoon  had 
not  only  lightened  my  purse,  but  considerably 
opened  my  eyes.  Where  I  had  had  nearly  four 
hundred  dollars  I  had  now  nearly  three.  With 
very  slight  extravagance,  according  to  the  stand 
ards  of  New  York,  it  would  come  down  to  nearly 
two,  and  then  to  nearly  one,  and  then  to  ... 
But  I  shuddered  at  that,  and  stopped  thinking. 

Having  stopped  thinking  along  one  set  of  lines, 
I  presently  found  myself  off  on  another.  I  saw 
Harry  Drinkwater  sitting  in  the  dark  as  I  was 
sitting  in  the  hall  of  a  hotel.  That  is,  he  was 
idle  and  I  was  idle.  He  was  eating  his  heart 
out  as  I  was  eating  out  mine. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  go  back  to 
Thirty-fifth  Street  and  take  him  out  to  dinner. 
Alfonso,  recommended  by  Miss  Blair,  might  be 
no  more  successful  as  a  host  than  the  lady  with 
tresses  a  la  madone  who  had  given  me  my  lunch; 
but  we  could  try.  At  any  rate,  the  boy  wouldn't 
be  alone  on  this  first  evening  in  New  York,  and 
would  feel  that  some  one  cared  for  him. 

And  then  something  else  in  me  revolted.  No! 
No!  A  thousand  times  no!  I  had  cut  loose 
from  these  people  and  should  stay  loose.  On 
saying  good-by  to  Drinkwater  that  morning  I 
had  disappeared  without  a  trace.  For  any  one 
who  tried  to  follow  me  now  I  should  be  the  needle 
in  a  haystack.  What  good  could  come  of  my 

68 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

going  back  of  my  own  accord  and  putting  my 
self  on  a  level  to  which  I  did  not  belong? 

Like  many  Americans,  I  was  no  believer  in  the 
equality  of  men.  For  men  as  a  whole  I  had  no 
respect,  and  in  none  but  the  smallest  group  had 
I  any  confidence.  Looking  at  the  faces  as  they 
passed  me  in  the  hall,  I  saw  only  those  of  brutes — 
and  these  were  mostly  people  who  had  had  what 
we  call  advantages.  As  for  those  who  had  not 
had  advantages  I  disliked  them  in  contact  and 
distrusted  them  in  principle.  I  described  my 
self  not  only  as  a  snob,  but  as  an  aristocrat.  I 
had  worked  it  out  that  to  be  well  educated  and 
well-to-do  was  the  normal.  To  be  poor  and  ill 
educated  was  abnormal.  Those  who  suffered 
from  lack  of  means  or  refinement  did  so  because 
of  some  flaw  in  themselves  or  their  inheritance. 
They  were  the  plague  of  the  world.  They  cre 
ated  all  the  world's  problems  and  bred  most 
of  its  diseases.  From  the  beginning  of  time  they 
had  been  a  source  of  disturbance  to  better  men, 
and  would  be  to  the  end  of  it. 

It  was  the  irony  of  ironies,  then,  that  I  should 
have  become  a  member  of  a  group  that  included 
a  lady's  maid,  a  chauffeur,  and  two  stenogra 
phers,  and  been  hailed  as  one  of  them.  The 
lady's  maid  and  the  chauffeur  I  could,  of  course, 
dismiss  from  my  mind;  but  the  two  stenogra 
phers  had  seemingly  sworn  such  a  friendship  for 
me  that  nothing  but  force  would  cut  me  free  from 
it.  Very  well,  then;  I  should  use  force  if  it  was 
needed;  but  it  wouldn't  be  needed.  All  I  had 

69 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

to  do  was  to  refrain  from  going  to  take  Drink- 
water  out  to  dinner,  and  they  would  never  know 
where  I  was. 

And  yet,  if  you  would  believe  it,  I  went. 
Within  half  an  hour  I  was  knocking  at  his  bed 
room  door  and  hearing  his  cheery  "Come  in.'* 

Why  I  did  this  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  was 
neither  from  loneliness,  nor  kind-heartedness, 
nor  a  sense  of  duty.  The  feet  that  wouldn't  take 
the  horse  to  the  stable  took  him  back  to  that 
crimson  rooming-house,  and  that  is  all  I  can  say. 

Drinkwater  was  sitting  in  the  dark,  which  was 
no  darker  to  him  than  daylight;  but  when  I 
switched  on  the  light  his  pug  grin  gave  an  added 
illumination  to  the  room. 

"Say,  that's  the  darnedest!  I  knew  you'd 
come,  in  spite  of  the  old  lady  swearing  you 
wouldn't.  I'd  given  you  half  an  hour  yet;  and 
here  you  are,  twenty-five  minutes  ahead  of  time." 

The  reception  annoyed  me.  It  was  bad  enough 
to  have  come;  but  it  was  worse  to  have  been 
expected. 

"How  have  you  been  getting  on?"  I  asked,  in 
order  to  relieve  my  first  anxiety. 

"Oh,  fine!" 

"Haven't  you  been — dull?" 

"Lord,  no!" 

"What  have  you  had  to  do?" 

"Oh,  enjoy  myself — feeling  my  way  about  the 
house.  I  can  go  all  round  the  room,  and  out 
into  the  hall,  and  up  and  down  stairs  just  as  easily 
as  you  can.  It's  a  cinch." 

70 


THE. THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  Miss  Blair?" 

"Sure!  Called  up  about  an  hour  ago  to  say 
she'd  found  the  swellest  place — in  Forty-first 
Street.  But,  say,  Jasper,  what  do  you  think  of 
a  girl  who  gives  up  the  room  she's  reserved  for 
a  month  and  more,  just  to — " 

I  broke  in  on  this  to  ask  where  he'd  had  his 
lunch. 

"Oh,  the  old  girl  made  me  go  down  and  have 
it  with  her.  She's  not  half  a  bad  sort,  when  you 
come  to  know  her.  I've  asked  her  to  come  out 
to  dinner  with  me  at  Alfonso's.  Lydia  Blair 
says  it's  a  dandy  place — and  now  you  can  join 
the  party." 

"No;  I've  come  to  take  you  out." 

"Say,  Jasper!  Do  you  think  I'm  always  go 
ing  to  pass  the  buck,  just  because  .  .  .  You  and 
little  Goldie  are  coming  to  dinner  with  me." 

Not  to  dispute  the  point,  I  yielded  it,  asking 
only: 

"What  made  you  think  I  was  coming  this 
evening? — because,  you  know,  I  didn't  mean  to." 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  Like  you  to  do  it.  You're  the 
sort.  That's  all." 

So  within  another  half-hour  I  found  myself 
at  Alfonso's,  on  Drinkwater's  left,  with  little 
Goldie  opposite.  Little  Goldie  seemed  somehow 
the  right  name  for  the  Statue  of  the  Commander, 
now  that  she  wore  a  lingerie  hat  and  a  blouse  of 
the  kind  which  I  believe  is  called  peek-a-boo. 
She  was  well  known  at  Alfonso's,  however,  her 
authority  securing  us  a  table  in  a  corner,  with 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

special  attentions  from  head  and  subordinate 
waitresses. 

How  shall  I  tell  you  of  Alfonso's?  Like  the 
rooming-house,  it  was  for  me  a  new  social  mani 
festation.  It  was  what  you  might  call  the  home 
of  the  homeless,  and  the  homeless  were  numerous 
and  noisy.  They  were  very  noisy,  they  were 
very  hot.  The  odor  of  food  struck  upon  the 
nostrils  like  the  smell  of  a  whole  burnt  sacri 
fice  when  they  offered  up  an  ox.  The  perfume 
of  wine  swam  on  top  of  that  food,  and  over  and 
above  both  the  smell  of  a  healthy,  promiscuous, 
perspiring  humanity,  washed  and  unwashed,  in 
a  festive  hurtling  together,  hilarious  and  hungry. 

The  food  was  excellent;  the  wine  as  good  as 
any  vin  ordinaire  in  France;  the  service  rapid; 
and  the  whole  a  masterpiece  of  organization. 
I  had  eaten  many  a  dinner  for  which  I  paid  ten 
times  as  much  which  wouldn't  have  compared 
with  it. 

During  the  progress  of  the  meal  it  was  natural 
that  Miss  Flowerdew,  whose  eye  commended  the 
change  in  my  appearance,  should  ask  me  what 
I  had  been  doing  through  the  day.  I  didn't, 
as  you  will  understand,  find  it  necessary  to  go 
into  details;  but  I  told  her  of  my  unsuccessful 
attempts  to  find  a  room. 

"Did  you  try  the  Hotel  Barcelona,  in  Fourth 
Avenue?" 

I  told  her  I  had  not. 

"Then  do  so."  Fumbling  in  her  bag,  she  found 
a  card  and  pencil.  "Take  that,"  she  commanded, 

72 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

when  she  had  finished  scribbling,  "and  ask  for 
Mr.  Jewsbury.  If  he  isn't  in,  show  it  to  the 
room  clerk,  but  keep  it  for  Mr.  Jewsbury  to 
morrow.  I've  told  them  you  must  have  a  room 
and  bath,  not  over  two-fifty  a  day — and  clean. 
Tell  them  I  said  so." 

"Is  Mr.  Jewsbury  a  friend  of  yours?"  I  asked, 
inanely,  after  I  had  thanked  her. 

"He  used  to  be  my  husband — the  one  before 
Mr.  Crockett.  I  could  be  Mrs.  Jewsbury  again, 
if  I  so  chose;  but  I  do  not  so  choose." 

With  this  astonishing  hint  of  the  possibilities 
in  Miss  Goldie  Flowerdew's  biography  I  saw  the 
value  of  discretion,  and  as  soon  as  courtesy  per 
mitted  took  my  leave  to  visit  the  Hotel  Bar 
celona. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ATER  a  delicious  night  I  woke  in  a  room 
which  gave  the  same  shock  to  my  fastidi 
ousness  as  the  first  glimpse  of  my  cabin  on  board 
ship.  I  woke  cheerfully,  however,  knowing  that 
I  was  in  New  York  and  that  not  many  days 
could  pass  before  some  happy  chance  encounter 
would  give  me  the  clue  of  which  I  was  in  search. 
Cheerfully  I  dressed  and  breakfasted;  cheerfully 
I  sat  down  in  the  dingy  hall  to  scan  the  morn 
ing's  news. 

It  was  the  first  paper  I  had  opened  since  land 
ing.  It  was  the  first  I  had  looked  at  since  .  .  . 

I  had  no  recollection  of  when  I  had  read  a 
newspaper  last.  It  must  have  been  long  ago; 
so  long  ago  that  the  history  of  my  immediate 
time  had  lapsed  into  formlessness,  like  that  of 
the  ancient  world.  I  knew  there  was  a  world; 
I  knew  there  were  countries  and  governments; 
I  knew,  as  I  have  said,  that  there  was  a  war.  Of 
the  causes  of  that  war  I  retained  about  the  same 
degree  of  information  as  of  the  origin  of  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses. 

Bewilderment  was  my  first  reaction  now;  the 
second  was  amazement.  Reading  the  papers 
with  no  preparation  from  the  day  before,  or  from 
the  day  before  that — with  no  preparation  at  all 

74 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

but  the  vague  memory  of  horrors  from  which 
my  mind  retreated  the  minute  they  were  sug 
gested — reading  the  papers  thus,  the  world  seemed 
to  me  to  have  been  turned  upside  down.  Hin 
dus  were  in  France,  Canadians  in  Belgium,  the 
French  in  the  Dobrudja,  the  Australians  in 
Turkey,  the  British  and  Germans  in  East  Africa, 
and  New-Zealanders  on  the  peninsula  of  Sinai. 
What  madness  was  this?  How  had  the  race  of 
men  got  into  such  a  tragi-comic  topsy-turvydom  ? 
A  long  crooked  line  slashed  all  across  Europe 
showed  the  main  body  of  the  opponents  locked 
in  a  mutual  death  embrace. 

I  had  hardly  grasped  the  meaning  of  it  when, 
looking  up,  I  saw  a  figure  of  light  standing  in  the 
lobby  before  me.  It  was  all  in  white  serge,  with 
a  green  sash  about  the  waist,  and  the  head 
wreathed  in  a  white  motor  veil. 

"Hello,  kid!"  The  husky,  comic,  Third  Ave 
nue  laugh  was  Lydia  Blair's.  I  had  just  time 
to  rehearse  the  series  of  irritations  I  knew  I 
should  feel  at  being  tracked  down,  and  to  regret 
my  folly  for  having  gone  back  to  Drinkwater 
on  the  previous  evening.  Then  I  saw  the  heav 
enly  eyes  surveying  me  with  an  air  of  approval. 
"Well,  you  look  like  a  nice  tailor's  dummy  at 
last,  Takes  me  back  to  Seattle  or  Boston  or 
Salt  Lake  City — and  the  lady."  As  she  rattled 
on,  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  began  to  flash  on  me  from 
the  air.  "We  haven't  got  her  to-day,  but  there's 
some  one  else  who  perhaps  will  fill  the  bill.  Come 


on  out." 


75 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Wondering  what  she  could  mean,  and  whether 
or  not  the  longed-for  clue  might  not  be  at  hand, 
I  suffered  myself  to  be  led  by  the  arm  to  the  door 
of  the  hotel. 

At  first  I  saw  nothing  but  a  large  and  hand 
some  touring-car  drawn  up  against  the  curb. 
Then  I  saw  Drinkwater  snuggled  in  a  corner — 
and  then  a  brown  veil.  I  couldn't  help  crossing 
the  pavement,  since  Lydia  did  the  same,  and  the 
brown  veil  seemed  to  expect  me. 

"Miss  Blair  thought  you  might  like  a  drive, 
Mr.  Soames,  so  we  came  round  to  see  if  we  could 
find  you." 

"Come  on  in,  Jasper/'  Drinkwater  urged; 
"the  water's  fine." 

"Come  on.  Don't  be  silly,"  Miss  Blair  in 
sisted,  as  I  began  to  make  excuses. 

Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  had  stum 
bled  into  the  seat  opposite  Miss  Averill.  She 
sat  in  the  right-hand  corner,  Drinkwater  in  the 
left,  Miss  Blair  between  the  two.  I  occupied 
one  of  the  small  folding  armchairs,  going  back 
ward.  In  another  minute  we  were  on  our  way 
through  one  of  the  cross-streets  to  Fifth  Avenue. 

Having  grasped  the  situation,  I  was  annoyed. 
Miss  Averill  was  taking  the  less  fortunate  of  her 
acquaintance  for  an  airing.  Though  I  could  do 
justice  to  her  kindliness,  I  resented  being  forced 
again  into  a  position  from  which  I  was  trying  to 
struggle  out. 

Then  I  saw  something  that  diverted  my  atten 
tion  even  from  my  wrongs.  The  pavements  in 

76 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Fifth  Avenue  were  thronged  with  a  slowly  mov 
ing  crowd  of  men  and  women,  but  mostly  men, 
that  made  progress  up  or  down  impossible. 
Looking  closely,  I  saw  that  they  were  all  of  the 
nations  which  people  like  myself  are  apt  to  con 
sider  most  alien  to  the  average  American.  Of 
true  Caucasian  blood  there  was  hardly  a  streak 
among  them.  Dark,  stunted,  oddly  hatted, 
oddly  dressed,  abject  and  yet  eager,  submissive 
and  yet  hostile,  they  poured  up  and  up  and  up 
from  all  the  side-streets,  as  runlets  from  a  moun 
tain-side  into  a  great  stream.  For  the  pedestrian, 
\the  shopper,  the  flaneur,  there  was  not  an  inch 
of  foot  room.  These  surging  multitudes  monopo 
lized  everything.  From  Fourteenth  Street  to 
Forty-second  Street,  a  distance  of  more  than  a 
mile  along  the  most  extravagantly  showy  thor 
oughfare  in  the  world,  these  two  dense  lines 
of  humanity  took  absolute  possession,  driving 
clerks  back  into  their  shops  and  customers  from 
trade  by  the  sheer  weight  of  numbers. 

"Good  heavens!  What's  up?"  I  cried,  in 
amazement. 

Miss  Averill,  who  was  doubtless  used  to  the 
phenomenon,  looked  mildly  surprised. 

"Why,  it's  always  this  way!"  she  smiled. 
"It's  their  lunch-hour.  They  come  from  shops 
and  workshops  in  the  side-streets  to  see  the  sights 
and  get  the  air." 

"But  is  it  like  this  every  day?" 

"Sure  it  is!"  laughed  Miss  Blair.  "Did  you 
never  see  the  Avenue  before?" 

77 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"I've  never  seen  this  before.  I'm  sure  they 
didn't  do  it  a  few  years  ago." 

Miss  Averill  agreed  to  this.  It  was  a  new 
manifestation,  due  to  the  changes  this  part  of 
New  York  had  undergone  in  recent  years. 

"  But  how  do  the  people  get  in  and  out  of  the 
shops?" 

Miss  Blair  explained  that  they  couldn't,  which 
was  the  reason  why  so  many  businesses  were 
being  driven  up-town.  There  was  an  hour 
in  the  day  when  everything  was  at  a  stand 
still. 

"And  if  during  that  hour  this  inflammable 
stuff  were  to  be  set  ablaze — " 

Miss  AverilPs  comment  did  not  make  the  situ 
ation  better.  "Oh,  the  same  thing  goes  on  in 
every  city  in  the  country,  only  you  don't  see  it. 
New  York  is  unfortunate  in  having  only  one 
street.  Any  other  street  is  just  a  byway.  Here 
the  whole  city,  for  every  purpose  of  its  life,  has 
to  pour  itself  into  Fifth  Avenue,  so  that  if  any 
thing  is  going  on  you  get  it  there." 

We  did  not  continue  the  subject,  for  none  of 
us  really  wanted  to  talk  of  it.  In  its  way  it  went 
beyond  whatever  we  were  prepared  to  say.  It 
was  disquieting;  it  might  be  menacing.  We 
preferred  to  watch,  to  study,  to  wonder,  as,  in 
the  press  of  vehicles,  we  slowly  made  our  way 
between  these  banks  of  outlandish  faces,  every 
one  of  which  was  like  a  slumbering  fire.  If  our 
American  civilization  were  ever  to  be  blown  vi 
olently  from  one  basis  to  another,  as  I  had  some- 

78 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

times  thought  might  happen,  the  social  TNT  was 
concentrated  here. 

But  we  were  soon  in  the  Park.  Soon  after  that 
we  were  running  along  the  river-bank.  Soon 
after  that  we  came  to  an  inn  by  a  stream  in 
a  dimple  of  a  dell,  and  here  Miss  Averill  had 
ordered  lunch  by  telephone.  It  was  a  nice  little 
lunch,  in  a  sort  of  rude  pavilion  that  simulated 
eating  in  the  open  air.  I  noticed  that  all  the 
arrangements  had  been  made  with  as  much  fore 
sight  as  if  we  had  been  people  of  distinction. 

So  I  began  to  examine  my  hostess  with  more 
attention  than  I  had  ever  given  her,  coming  to 
the  conclusion  that  she  belonged  to  the  new  vari 
ety  of  rich  American  whom  I  had  somewhere 
had  occasion  to  observe. 

Sensible  and  sympathetic  were  the  first  words 
you  applied  to  her,  and  you  could  see  she  was  of 
the  type  to  seek  nothing  for  herself.  Brown  was 
her  color,  as  it  so  often  is  that  of  self-renouncing 
characters — the  brown  of  woodland  brooks  in  her 
eyes,  the  brown  of  nuts  in  her  hair,  and  all  about 
her  an  air  of  conscientiousness  that  left  no  place 
for  coquetry. 

Conscientiousness  was  her  aura,  and  among  the 
shades  of  conscientiousness  that  in  spending  money 
easily  came  first.  I  was  sure  she  had  studied 
the  whole  question  of  financial  inequality  from 
books,  and  as  much  as  she  could  from  observa 
tion.  Zeal  to  make  the  best  use  of  her  income 
had  probably  held  her  back  from  marriage  and 
dictated  her  occupations.  It  had  drawn  her  to 

79 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

working-girls  like  Lydia  Blair,  to  struggling  men 
like  Harry  Drinkwater,  and  now  indirectly  to  me. 
It  had  suggested  the  drive  of  this  morning,  and 
had  bidden  her  gather  us  round  her  table  as  if  we 
were  her  equals.  She  knew  we  were  not  her  equals, 
but  she  was  doing  her  best  to  forget  the  fact,  and 
to  have  us  forget  it,  too.  With  Harry  and  Lydia 
I  think  she  was  successful.  But  with  me  .  .  . 

She  herself  knew  she  was  not  successful  with 
me,  and  when,  after  the  coffee,  the  working-girl 
had  taken  the  blind  man  and  strayed  with  him 
for  a  few  hundred  yards  into  the  woods,  Miss 
Averill  grew  embarrassed.  The  more  she  tried 
to  keep  me  from  seeing  it  the  more  she  betrayed 
it — not  in  words,  or  glances,  or  any  trick  of  color, 
but  in  inner  hesitations  which  only  mind-reading 
could  detect. 

As  we  still  sat  at  the  table,  but  each  a  little 
away  from  it,  she  gathered  all  her  resources  to 
gether  to  be  the  lady  in  authority. 

"I'm  glad  of  a  word  alone  with  you  because — " 
Apparently  she  could  get  no  farther  in  this  di 
rection,  and  so  took  another  line.  "I  think  you 
said  your  business  was  with  carpets,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Somebody  may  have  said  it  for  me — es 
pecially  after  our  little  talk  about  the  rug — but 
it  didn't  come  from  me." 

Her  hazel  eyes  rested  on  me  frankly.  "And 
it's  not?" 

"No,  it's  not." 

"Oh,  then — "  Her  tone  was  slightly  that  of 
disappointment. 

80 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Did  you  want  it  to  be?"  I  smiled. 

"It  isn't  that;  but  my  brother  thought  it 
was — " 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why — except  for  the 
rug.  But  one  can  know  about  rugs  and  not  have 
to  sell  them,  can't  one?" 

"It's  not  a  usual  branch  of  knowledge,  except 
among  connoisseurs  and  artists — " 

"Oh,  well!" 

"So  my  brother  thought  if  you  were  in  that 
kind  of  work  he'd  give  you  a  note  to  a  friend  of 
his — at  the  head  of  one  of  the  big  carpet  estab 
lishments  in  New  York — " 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  him,"  I  broke  in,  as  she 
drew  a  letter  from  the  bag  she  carried,  "and  if 
I  needed  it  I'd  take  it;  but — but  I  don't  need  it. 
It — it  wouldn't  be  any  good  to  me.  I  thank  him 
none  the  less  sincerely  —  and  you,  too,  Miss 
Averill— " 

She  looked  at  the  ground,  her  long  black  lashes 
almost  resting  on  her  cheek. 

"I  must  seem  to  you  very  officious,  but — " 

"Not  in  the  slightest.  Fm  extremely  grateful. 
If  I  required  help  there's  nobody — " 

"You  don't  live  in  New  York?" 

"I'm  going  to  stay  here  for — for  the  present." 

"But  not — not  to  work?" 

"That  I  shall  have  to  see." 

"I  suppose  you're  a — a  writer — or  one  of  those 
things." 

"No,  I'm  not  any  of  those  things,"  I  said, 
gravely;   and  at  that  we  laughed. 
6  81 


CHAPTER  IX 

WE  got  back  to  New  York  in  time  for  me 
to  begin  the  parade  of  the  hotels.  Tak 
ing  this  task  seriously,  I  selected  the  biggest  and 
made  myself  conspicuous  by  keeping  on  my  feet. 
For  three  days  nothing  happened  except  within 
myself.  This  focusing  of  men  and  women  into 
vast  assemblies  from  four  to  seven  every  after 
noon  began  to  strike  me  as  the  counterpart  of  the 
gatherings  I  was  watching  each  day  between 
twelve  and  one  on  the  pavements  of  Fifth  Avenue. 
Though  the  activities  were  different,  the  same 
obscure  set  of  motives  seemed  to  lie  behind  both. 
In  both  there  was  the  impulse  to  crowd  densely 
together,  as  if  promiscuity  was  a  source  of  ex 
citement.  In  both  there  was  a  vacuity  that  was 
not  purposeless.  In  both  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  the  sleeping  wild  beast.  While  in  the  one 
case  the  accompaniment  was  the  inchoate  up 
roar  of  the  streets,  in  the  other  it  was  an  orches-. 
tra  that  jazzed  w4th  the  monotonous  incite 
ment  of  Oriental  tom-toms,  nagging,  teasing, 
tormenting  the  wild  beast  to  get  up  and  show 
his  wildness.  Across  tea-rooms  or  between  ar 
cades  one  could  see  couples  dancing  in  a  lan 
guorous  semi-paralysis  of  which  the  fascination 

82 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

lay  in  a  hint  of  barbaric  shamelessness.  Bar 
baric  shamelessness  marked  the  huge  shaven 
faces  of  most  of  the  men  and  the  kilts  of  most 
of  the  women.  I  mention  these  details  only  to 
point  out  that  to  me,  after  my  mysterious  ab 
sence,  they  indicated  a  socially  new  America. 

It  was  the  fourth  afternoon  when,  drifting 
with  the  crowd  through  a  corridor  lined  with 
tables  at  which  small  parties  were  having  tea, 
I  felt  the  long-expected  tap  on  my  shoulder. 

In  the  interval  too  brief  to  reckon  before  turn 
ing  round  two  possibilities  were  clear  in  my 
mind.  The  unknown  crime  from  which  I  was 
running  away  might  have  found  me  out — or 
some  friend  had  come  to  my  deliverance.  Either 
event  would  be  welcome,  for  even  if  it  were  arrest 
I  should  learn  my  name  and  history. 

Hello,  old  chap!     Come  and  have  some  tea." 

1  was  disappointed.  It  was  only  Boyd  Averill. 
Behind  him  his  wife  and  sister  were  seated  at 
one  of  the  little  tables.  It  was  the  sort  of  in 
vitation  one  couldn't  refuse,  especially  as  they 
saw  I  was  strolling  without  purpose. 

It  was  Mrs.  Averill  who  talked,  in  the  bored 
voix  trainante  of  one  who  has  everything  the 
world  can  give,  except  what  she  wants  most. 
I  had  seen  before  that  she  was  a  beautiful  woman, 
but  never  so  plainly  as  now — a  woman  all  soft 
ness  and  dimpling  curves,  with  the  same  sug 
gestions  of  the  honeyed  and  melting  and  fatigued 
in  her  glances  that  you  got  from  the  inflection 
of  her  sentences. 

83 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She  explained  thut  tney  had  come  from  a 
song  recital  in  the  great  hall  up-stairs.  It  was 
given  at  this  unusual  time  of  the  year  by  a  well- 
known  singer  who  was  passing  through  New  York 
on  her  way  to  Australia.  With  this  interruption 
she  continued  the  criticism  she  had  been  making 
when  I  sat  down,  and  which  dealt  with  certain 
phrases  in  a  song — Goethe's  "  Ueber  alien  Gip- 
feln." 

"The  Schubert  setting?"  I  asked,  after  in 
forming  Miss  Averill  as  to  how  I  should  have 
my  tea. 

"No,  the  Hugo  Wolff." 

I  began  to  hum  in  an  undertone:  "'Ueber  alien 
Gipfeln  ist  Ruh;  in  allem  Wipfeln  horest  du  kaum 
einen  HauchJ  Is  that  the  one?" 

The  ladies  exchanged  glances;  Averill  kept 
his  eyes  on  my  face. 

"Yes,  that's  the  one,"  Mrs.  Averill  said,  as 
if  nothing  unusual  had  happened.  "So  you 
sing." 

"No;  I — I  just  know  the  song.  I've — I've 
heard  a  good  deal  of  music  at  one  time  and  an 
other." 

"Abroad?" 

"Yes — abroad — and   here." 

"Where  especially  here?" 

"Oh,  New  York — Boston — Chicago — different 
places."  I  did  my  best  to  be  vague. 

I  noticed  for  the  first  time  then  a  shade  of  wist- 
fulness  in  Mildred  Ave rill's  brown  eyes  as  she 
said: 

84 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"You  seem  to  have  moved  about  a  good 
deal." 

"Oh  yes.  I  wanted — I  wanted  to  see  what 
was  happening/' 

"And  you  saw  it?" 

Averill  asked  me  that,  his  gaze  still  fixed 
on  me  thoughtfully. 

"Enough  for  the  present." 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  seconds  during 
which  I  could  hear  the  unuttered  question  of  all 
three,  "Why  don't  you  tell  us  who  you  are?" 
It  was  a  kindly  question,  with  nothing  but  sym 
pathy  behind  it.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  tacit  offer  of 
friendship,  if  I  would  only  take  it  up.  More 
plainly  than  they  could  have  expressed  them 
selves  in  words,  it  said:  "We  like  you.  We  are 
ready  to  be  your  friends.  Only  give  us  the  least 
little  bit  of  encouragement.  Link  yourself  up 
with  something  we  know.  Don't  be  such  a 
mystery,  because  mystery  breeds  suspicion." 

When  I  let  it  go  by  Mildred  Averill  began  to 
talk  somewhat  at  random.  She  didn't  want  that 
significant  silence  to  be  repeated.  I  had  had 
my  chance  and  I  hadn't  taken  it.  Very  well, 
my  reasons  would  be  respected,  but  I  couldn't 
keep  people  from  wondering.  That  was  what 
I  knew  she  was  saying,  though  her  actual  words 
referred  to  our  expedition  of  a  few  days  pre 
viously. 

And  of  that  she  spoke  with  an  intonation 
that  associated  me  with  herself.  She  and  I  had 
taken  two  nice  young  people  of  the  working- 

85 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

classes  for  an  outing.  Let  me  hasten  to  say 
that  there  was  no  condescension  in  what  she  said; 
condescension  wasn't  in  her;  there  was  only 
the  implication  that  whatever  the  ground  she 
stood  on,  I  stood  on  that  ground,  too.  She  threw 
out  a  hint  that  as  New  York  in  these  September 
days  was  barely  waking  from  its  summer  leth 
argy,  and  there  was  little  to  fill  time,  we  might 
all  four  do  the  same  again. 

In  this  she  was  reserved,  nunlike,  yet — what 
shall  I  say?  What  is  there  to  say  when  a  woman 
betrays  what  very  few  people  perceive  and  one 
isn't  supposed  to  know  to  be  there?  There  is 
a  decoration  on  certain  old  Chinese  porcelains 
which  you  can  only  see  in  special  lights.  A  vase 
or  a  bowl  may  be  of,  let  us  say,  a  rich  green 
monochrome.  You  may  look  at  the  thing  a 
thousand  times  and  nothing  but  the  mono 
chrome  will  be  visible.  Then  one  day  the  sun 
will  strike  it  at  a  special  angle,  or  the  light  may 
otherwise  be  what  the  artist  did  his  work  for, 
and  beneath  the  green  you  will  discern  dragons 
or  chrysanthemums  in  gold.  Somewhat  in  that 
way  the  real  Mildred  Averill  came  out  and  with 
drew,  withdrew  and  came  out,  not  so  much  ac 
cording  to  changes  in  her  as  according  to  changes 
in  the  person  observing  her.  When  you  saw  her 
from  one  point  of  view  she  was  diffident,  demure, 
not  colorless,  but  all  of  one  color  like  a  rare  piece 
of  monochrome.  When  you  looked  at  her  from 
another  you  saw  the  golden  dragons  and  chrys 
anthemums.  You  might  not  have  understood 

86 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

what  they  symbolized,  but  this  much  at  least 
you  would  have  known — that  the  gold  was  the 
gold  of  fire,  all  the  more  dangerous,  perhaps,  be 
cause  it  was  banked  down. 

That  in  this  company,  with  its  batteries  of 
tacit  inquiry  turned  on  me  all  the  while  I  took 
my  tea,  I  was  uneasy  will  go  without  saying, 
and  so  I  took  the  earliest  possible  opportunity 
to  get  up  and  slip  away.  I  did  not  slip  away, 
however,  before  Mrs.  Averill  had  asked  me  to 
lunch  on  the  following  Sunday,  and  I  had  been 
forced  into  accepting  the  invitation.  I  had  been 
forced  because  she  wouldn't  take  no  for  an 
answer.  She  wanted  to  talk  about  music;  she 
wranted  to  sing  to  me;  in  reality,  as  I  guessed 
then,  and  soon  came  to  know,  she  was  deter 
mined  to  wring  from  me,  out  of  sheer  curiosity, 
the  facts  I  wouldn't  confide  of  my  own  accord. 

But  having  accepted  the  invitation,  I  saw  that 
there  were  advantages  in  doing  so.  Once  back 
in  the  current  to  which  I  belonged,  I  should  have 
more  chances  of  the  recognition  for  which  I  was 
working.  The  social  life  of  any  country  runs 
in  streams  like  those  we  see  pictured  on  isothermal 
charts.  The  same  kind  of  people  move  in  the 
same  kind  of  medium  from  north  to  south,  and 
from  east  to  west.  If  you  know  one  man  there 
you  will  soon  know  another,  till  you  have  a  chain 
of  acquaintances,  all  socially  similar,  right  across 
the  continent.  That  I  had  such  a  chain  I  didn't 
doubt  for  an  instant;  my  only  difficulty  was  to 
get  in  touch  with  it.  As  soon  as  I  did  that  each. 

87 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

name  would  bring  up  a  kindred  name,  till  I  found 
myself  swimming  in  my  native  channel,  wherever 
it  was,  like  a  fish  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  whether  off 
the  coast  of  Norway  or  off  that  of  Mexico. 

So  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had  done 
right  in  ceding  to  Mrs.  Averill's  insistence, 
though  it  occurred  to  me  on  second  thoughts 
that  I  should  need  another  suit  of  clothes.  That 
I  had  was  well  enough  for  knockabout  purposes, 
especially  when  carried  off  with  some  amount 
of  bluff;  but  the  poverty  of  its  origin  would 
become  too  evident  if  worn  on  all  occasions. 
I  had  seen  at  the  emporium  that  by  spending 
more  money  and  putting  on  only  a  slightly  en 
hanced  swagger  I  could  make  a  much  better  ap 
pearance  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  didn't  examine 
me  too  closely.  I  decided  that  the  gain  would 
warrant  the  extravagance. 

Within  ten  days  of  my  landing,  therefore,  my 
nearly  four  hundred  dollars  had  come  down  to 
nearly  two,  though  I  had  the  consolation  of  know 
ing  that  my  chances  of  soon  getting  at  my  bank- 
account  were  better.  At  any  minute  now  my 
promenades  in  the  hotels  might  be  rewarded, 
while  conversation  with  the  Averills  would  sooner 
or  later  bring  up  names  with  which  I  should 
have  associations. 

It  was  disconcerting  then,  on  the  following 
Sunday,  to  be  received  with  some  constraint.  It 
was  the  more  disconcerting  in  that  the  coldness 
came  from  Averill  himself.  He  strolled  into 
the  hall  while  I  was  putting  down  my  hat  and 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

stick,  shaking  hands  with  the  peculiar  listlessness 
of  a  man  who  disapproves  of  what  is  happen 
ing.  As  hitherto  I  had  found  him  interested 
and  cordial,  I  couldn't  help  being  struck  by 
the  change. 

"You  see  how  we  are,"  he  observed,  pointing 
to  an  open  packing-case.  "Not  up  to  the  point 
of  having  guests;  but  Mrs.  Averill — " 

"Mrs.  Averill  was  too  kind  to  me  to  think  of 
inconveniences  to  herself/' 

"Just  come  up  to  the  library,  will  you, 
and  I'll  tell  her  you're  here." 

It  was  a  way  of  getting  rid  of  me  till  his  wife 
could  come  and  assume  her  own  responsibilities. 

So  long  a  time  had  passed  since  I  had  seen  the 
interior  of  an  American  house  of  this  order  that 
I  took  notes  as  I  made  my  way  up-stairs.  Out 
of  the  unsuspected  resources  of  my  being  came 
the  capacity  to  do  it.  Most  people  on  entering 
a  house  see  nothing  but  its  size.  A  background 
more  or  less  elaborately  furnished  may  be  in 
their  minds,  but  they  have  not  the  knowledge 
to  enable  them  to  seize  details.  The  careful 
arrangement  of  taste  is  all  one  to  them  with 
some  nondescript,  haphazard  jumble. 

In  this  dwelling,  in  one  of  the  streets  off  Fifth 
Avenue,  on  the  eastern  side  of  Central  Park,  I 
found  the  typical  home  of  the  average  wealthy 
American.  Money  had  been  spent  on  it,  but 
with  a  kind  of  helplessness.  Helplessness  had 
designed  the  house,  as  it  had  planned,  or  hadn't 
planned,  the  street  outside. 

89 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

A  square  hall  contained  a  few  monumental 
pieces  of  furniture  because  they  were  monumen 
tal.  A  dining-room  behind  it  was  full  of  high- 
backed  Italian  chairs  because  they  were  high- 
backed  and  Italian.  The  stairs  were  built  as  they 
were  because  the  architect  had  not  been  able 
to  avoid  a  dark  spot  in  the  middle  of  the  house 
and  the  stairs  filled  it.  On  the  floor  above  a 
glacial  drawing-room  in  white  and  gold,  with 
the  furniture  still  in  bags,  ran  the  width  of  the 
back  of  the  house,  while  across  the  front  was  the 
library  into  which  I  was  shown,  spacious,  cheerful, 
with  plenty  of  books,  magazines,  and  easy-chairs. 

In  the  way  of  pictures  there  were  but  two — 
modern  portraits  of  a  man  and  a  woman,  whom 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  setting  down  as  the  father  and 
mother  of  Averill.  Of  the  mother  I  knew  noth 
ing  except  that  she  had  been  a  school-teacher; 
of  the  father  Miss  Blair  had  given  me  the  de 
tailed  history  as  told  in  Men  Who  Have  Made 
New  Jersey. 

Hubbard  Averill  was  the  son  of  a  shoemaker 
in  Elizabeth.  On  leaving  school  at  fifteen  he 
had  the  choice  of  going  into  a  grocery  store  as 
clerk  or  as  office-boy  into  a  bank.  He  chose  the 
bank.  Ten  years  later  he  was  teller.  Five  years 
after  that  he  was  cashier.  Five  years  after 
that  he  had  the  same  position  in  a  bank  of 
importance  in  Jersey  City.  Five  years  after 
that  he  was  recognized  as  one  of  the  able  young 
financiers  in  the  neighborhood  of  New  York. 
Before  he  was  fifty  his  name  was  honored  by 

90 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

those  who  count  in  Wall  Street.  It  was  the  his 
tory  of  most  of  the  successful  American  bankers 
I  had  ever  heard  of. 

There  was  no  packing-case  in  the  library,  but 
a  number  of  objects  recently  unpacked  stood 
round  about  on  tables,  waiting  to  be  disposed  of. 
There  was  a  little  Irish  glass,  with  much  old 
porcelain  and  pottery,  both  Chinese  and  Euro 
pean.  I  had  not  the  time  to  appraise  the  things 
with  the  eye  before  Miss  Averill  slipped  in. 

She  wore  a  hat,  and,  dressed  in  what  I  sup 
pose  was  tan-colored  linens,  she  seemed  just  to 
have  come  in  from  the  street. 

"My  sister  will  be  down  in  a  minute.  She's 
generally  late  on  Sunday.  I've  been  good  and 
have  been  to  church." 

We  sat  down  together  on  a  window-seat,  with 
some  self-consciousness  on  both  sides.  I  noticed 
again  that,  though  her  hair  was  brown,  her  eye 
brows  and  long  curving  lashes  were  black,  strik 
ing  the  same  discreet  yet  obscurely  dangerous 
note  as  the  rest  of  her  personality.  In  the  topaz 
of  her  eyes  there  were  little  specks  of  gold  like 
those  in  her  chain  of  amber  beads. 

After  a  little  introductory  talk  she  began  telling 
me  of  the  help  Miss  Blair  was  giving  Drinkwater. 
She  had  begun  to  teach  him  what  she  called  "big 
stenography."  Shorthand  and  the  touch  system 
were  included  in  it,  as  well  as  the  knack  of  trans 
cribing  from  the  dictaphone.  Boyd  had  bought 
a  machine  on  purpose  for  them  to  practise  with, 
looking  forward  to  the  day  when  Harry  should 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

resume  his  old  job  connected  with  laboratory 
work. 

"And  what's  to  become  of  Miss  Blair?" 

My  companion  lowered  her  fine  lashes,  speak 
ing  with  the  seeming  shyness  that  was  her  charm. 

"I'm  thinking  of  asking  her  to  come  and  live 
with  me.  You  see,  if  I  take  a  house  of  my  own 
I  shall  need  some  one;  and  she  suits  me.  She 
understands  the  kind  of  people  I  like  to  work 
among — " 

"Oh,  then  you're  not  going  to  keep  on  living 
here." 

"I've  lived  with  my  brother  and  sister  ever 
since  my  father  died;  but  one  comes  to  a  time 
when  one  needs  a  home  of  one's  own.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"Oh,  of  course!" 

"A  man — like  you,  for  instance — can  be  so 
free;  but  a  woman  has  to  live  within  exact  limi 
tations.  The  only  way  she  can  get  any  liberty 
at  all  is  within  her  own  home.  Not  that  my 
brother  and  sister  aren't  angelic  to  me.  They 
are,  of  course;  but  you  know  what  I  mean." 
The  glance  that  stole  under  her  lashes  was  half 
daring  and  half  apologetic.  "It  must  be  won 
derful  to  do  as  one  likes — to  experiment  with 
different  sorts  of  life — and  get  to  know  things 
at  first  hand." 

So  that  was  her  summing  up  concerning  me. 
I  was  one  of  those  moderns  with  so  keen  a  thirst 
for  life  that  I  was  testing  it  at  all  its  springs. 
She  didn't  know  my  ultimate  intention,  but  she 

92 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

could  sympathize  with  my  methods  and  admire 
my  courage  and  thoroughness.  Almost  in  so 
many  words  she  said  if  she  had  not  been  timid 
and  hedged  in  by  conventions  it  was  what  she 
would  have  liked  herself. 

Before  any  one  came  to  disturb  us  there  seeped 
through  her  conversation,  too,  the  reason  of 
AverilFs  coldness.  They  had  discussed  me  a 
good  deal,  and  while  he  had  nothing  to  accuse 
me  of,  he  considered  that  the  burden  of  the  proof 
of  my  innocence  lay  with  me.  I  might  be  all 
right — and  then  I  might  not  be.  So  long  as  there 
was  any  question  as  to  my  probity  I  was  a  per 
son  to  watch  with  readiness  to  help,  but  not 
one  to  ask  to  luncheon.  He  would  not  have  in 
vited  me  to  tea  a  few  days  before,  and  had  al 
lowed  me  to  pass  and  repass  before  ceding  to 
his  wife's  persistence.  He  had  consequently 
been  the  more  annoyed  when  she  carried  her  cu 
riosity  to  the  point  of  bringing  me  there  that  day. 

Miss  Averill  did  not,  of  course,  say  these  things; 
she  would  have  been  amazed  to  know  that  I  in 
ferred  them.  I  shouldn't  have  inferred  them 
had  I  not  seen  her  brother  and  partially  read  his 
mind 

But  my  hostess  came  trailing  in — the  verb 
is  the  only  one  I  can  find  to  express  her  grace 
fully  lymphatic  movements — and  I  was  obliged 
to  submit  to  a  welcome  which  was  overempha 
sized  for  the  benefit  of  the  husband  who  entered 
behind  her. 

"We're  really  not  equipped  for  having  any 
93 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

one  come  to  us,"  she  apologized.  "We're 
scarcely  unpacked.  We're  going  to  move  from 
this  house  anyhow  when  we  can  find  another. 
It's  so  poky.  If  we're  to  entertain  again— 
She  turned  to  her  sister:  "Mildred  dear,  couldnt 
some  one  have  cleared  these  things  away?" 
Waving  her  hand  toward  the  array  of  potteries 
and  porcelains,  she  continued  to  me:  "One  buys 
such  a  lot  during  two  or  three  years  abroad, 
doesn't  one?  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Soames  must  feel 
the  way  I  do,  that  she  doesn't  know  where  to 
put  the  things  when  she's  got  them  home." 

I  knew  the  reason  for  the  reference  which  others 
were  as  quick  to  catch  as  I,  and,  in  the  idiom  of 
the  moment,  tried  to  "side-step"  it  by  saying: 

"That's  a  good  thing — that  Rouen  saladier. 
You  don't  often  pick  up  one  of  that  shape  now 
adays." 

"I  saw  it  in  an  old  shop  at  Dreux,"  Mrs.  Averill 
informed  me,  in  her  melting  tone.  "I  got  this 
pair  of  Ming  vases  there,  too.  At  least,  they  said 
they  were  Ming;  but  I  don't  suppose  they  are. 
One  is  so  taken  in.  But  I  liked  them,  whatever 
they  are,  and  so — 

She  lifted  one  up  and  brought  it  to  me — a 
dead-white  jar,  decorated  with  green  foliage, 
violet-blue  flowers,  and  tiny  specks  of  red  fruit. 

Something  in  me  leaped.  I  took  the  vase  in 
my  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  child  of  my  flesh  and 
blood.  I  was  far  from  thinking  of  my  hearers 
as  I  said: 

"It's  not  Ming;  but  it's  very  good  K'ang-hsi." 
94 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  had  thrown  another  little  bomb  into  their 
camp,  but  it  surprised  them  no  more  than  it  did 
me.  A  trance  medium  who  hears  himself  speak 
ing  in  a  hitherto  unknown  tongue  could  not  have 
been  more  amazed  at  his  own  utterance.  I 
went  on  talking,  not  to  give  them  information, 
but  to  listen  for  what  I  should  say  next. 

They  had  all  three  drawn  near  me.  "How 
can  you  tell?"  Miss  Averill  asked,  partly  in  awe 
at  my  knowledge,  and  partly  to  give  me  the 
chance  to  display  it. 

"Oh,  very  much  as  you  can  tell  the  difference 
between  a  hat  you  wear  this  year  and  one  you 
wore  five  years  ago.  The  styles  are  quite  dif 
ferent.  Ming  corresponds  roughly  to  the  Tudor 
period'  in  English  history,  and  K'ang-hsi  to  the 
earlier  Stuarts — with  much  the  same  distinction 
as  we  get  between  the  output  of  those  two  epochs. 
Ming  is  older,  bolder,  stronger,  rougher,  with  a 
kind  of  primitive  force  in  it;  K'ang-hsi  is  the 
product  of  a  more  refined  civilization.  It  has 
less  of  the  instinctive  and  more  deliberate  se 
lection.  It  is  more  finished — more  self-con 
scious."  I  picked  up  the  Rouen  salad-dish  and 
a  Sevres  cup  and  saucer,  putting  them  side  by 
side.  "It's  something  like  the  difference  be 
tween  these — strength  and  color  and  dash  in 
the  one,  and  in  the  other  a  more  elaborately  per 
fected  art.  You  couldn't  be  in  any  doubt,  once 
you'd  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing  them." 

Mrs.   Averill's   question  was   as   natural   and 
spontaneous  as  laughter. 

95 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Where  have  you  seen  them  so  much,  Mr. 
Soames  ?" 

"Oh,  a  little  everywhere,"  I  managed  to  reply, 
just  as  we  were  summoned  to  luncheon. 

At  table  we  talked  of  the  pleasures  of  making 
"finds"  in  old  European  cities.  I  had  evidently 
done  a  lot  of  it,  for  I  could  deal  with  it  in  general 
quite  fluently.  When  they  pinned  me  down 
with  a  question  as  to  details  I  was  obliged  to 
hedge.  I  could  talk  of  The  Hague  and  Florence 
and  Strasbourg  and  Madrid  as  backgrounds,  but 
I  could  never  picture  myself  to  myself  as  walking 
in  their  streets. 

That,  however,  was  not  evident  to  my  com 
panions,  and  as  Mrs.  Averill's  interests  lay  along 
the  line  of  ceramic  art  I  was  able  to  bring  out 
much  in  the  way  of  connoisseurship  which  did 
not  betray  me.  With  Averill  himself  I  scored 
a  point;  with  Mildred  Averill  I  scored  many. 
With  Mrs.  Averill,  beneath  a  seeming  ennui  that 
grew  more  languorous,  I  quickened  curiosity  to 
the  fever-point. 

"What  a  lot  of  things  you  must  have,  Mr. 
Soames." 

My  refuge  being  always  in  the  negative,  I  said, 
casually:  "Oh  no!  One  doesn't  have  to  own 
things  just  because  one  admires  them." 

"But  you  say  yourself  that  you've  picked 
them  up — " 

As  she  had  nearly  caught  me  here  I  was  obliged 
to  wriggle  out.  "Oh,  to  give  away — and  that 
kind  of  thing." 

96 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Averill's  eyes  were  resting  on  me  thought 
fully.  "Sell?" 

"No;    I've  never  sold  anything  like  that/' 

"But  what's  the  use,"  Mrs.  Averill  asked, 
"of  caring  about  things  when  you  can't  have 
them?  I  should  hate  it." 

"Only  that  there's  nothing  you  can't  have." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Boyd?"  I  caught  the  im 
pulse  of  the  purring,  velvety  thing  to  vary  the 
monotony  of  life  by  scratching.  "Mr.  Soames 
says  there's  nothing  I  can't  have.  Much  he 
knows,  doesn't  he?" 

"There's  nothing  you  can't  have — within 
reason,  dear." 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  want  things  within  reason. 
I  want  them  out  of  reason.  I  want  to  be  like 
Mr.  Soames — free — free — " 

"You  can't  be  free  and  be  a  married  woman." 

"You  can  when  you  have  a  vocation,  can't 
you,  Mr.  Soames?  I  suppose  Mr.  Soames  is  a 
married  man — and  look  at  him."  She  hurried 
beyond  this  point,  to  add:  "And  look  at  Sydna, 
whom  we  heard  the  other  afternoon!  She's  a 
married  woman  and  her  husband  lives  in  London. 
He  lets  her  sing.  He  lets  her  travel.  He  leads 
his  life  and  lets  her  .  .  .  Mr.  Soames,  what  do 
you  think?" 

I  said,  tactfully,  "I  shall  be  able  to  judge 
better  when  you've  sung  to  me." 

Miss  Averill,  taking  up  the  thread  of  the  con 
versation  here,  we  got  through  the  rest  of  the 
luncheon  without  treading  in  difficult  places, 
7  97 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

and  presently  I  was  alone  with  Averill,  who  was 
passing  the  cigars. 

The  constraint  which  had  partially  lifted  dur 
ing  the  conversation  at  luncheon  fell  again  with 
the  departure  of  the  ladies.  I  had  mystified 
them  more  than  ever;  and  mystery  does  not 
make  for  easy  give  and  take  in  hospitality.  To 
Averill  himself  his  hospitality  was  sacred.  To 
entertain  at  his  own  board  a  man  with  no  cre 
dentials  but  those  which  an  adventurer  might 
present  was  the  source  of  a  discomfort  that 
amounted  to  unhappiness.  He  couldn't  conceal 
it;  he  didn't  care  to  conceal  it.  While  fulfilling 
all  that  courtesy  required  of  a  host,  he  was  willing 
to  let  me  see  it.  I  saw  it,  and  could  say  nothing, 
since  he  might  easily  be  right;  and  an  adventurer 
I  might  be. 

As,  with  his  back  to  the  open  doorway  into  the 
hall,  he  sat  down  with  his  own  cigar,  I  felt  that  he 
was  saying  to  himself,  "I  wish  to  God  you  were 
not  in  this  house!"  I  myself  was  responding 
silently  by  wishing  the  same  thing. 

It  was  the  obvious  minute  at  which  to  tell 
him  everything.  I  saw  that  as  plainly  as  you  do. 
Had  I  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  I  should  have 
become  one  of  the  most  interesting  cases  of  his 
experience.  Such  instances  of  shell-shock  were 
just  beginning  to  be  talked  about.  The  term 
was  finding  its  way  into  the  newspapers  and 
garnishing  common  speech.  Though  I  knew  of 
no  connection  between  my  misfortunes  and  the 
Great  War,  I  could  have  made  shift  to  furnish 

98 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

an   illustration   of  this   new    phase    among    its 
tragedies. 

During  a  pause  in  our  stilted  speech  I  screwed 
myself  up  to  the  point.  "There's  something — 
But  his  attention  was  distracted  for  the  mo 
ment,  and  when  it  came  back  to  me  I  couldn't 
begin  again.  No!  I  could  fight  the  thing 
through  on  my  own;  but  that  would  be  my  ut 
most.  '  A  confession  of  breakdown  was  impos 
sible. 

Then,  all  at  once,  I  got  a  glimpse  of  what  was 
in  the  back  of  his  mind,  though  something  else 
happened  simultaneously,  of  which  I  must  tell 
you  first.  Into  the  open  space  between  the 
portieres  behind  him  there  glided  a  little  figure 
clad  in  amber-colored  linen,  the  monochrome 
with  the  sun-spots  beneath  it.  She  didn't  speak, 
for  the  reason  that  Averill  spoke  first. 

"You're — "  He  struck  a  match  nervously 
to  relight  his  cigar —  "you're  a — a  married  man?" 

Once  more  negation  had  to  be  my  refuge.  If 
I  admitted  that  1  was  he  might  ask  me  whom  I 
had  married,  and  when,  and  where.  I  spoke 
with  an  emphasis  that  sprang  not  from  eager 
ness  of  denial,  but  from  anxiety  that  the  topic 
shouldn't  be  discussed. 

"No." 

The  question  and  answer  followed  so  swiftly 
on  Mildred  Averill's  arrival  on  the  threshold 
that  she  caught  them  both.  Little  sparks  of 
gold  shone  in  the  brown  pools  of  her  eyes,  and 
her  smile  took  on  a  new  shade  of  vitality. 

99 


THE  THREAD  OF   FLAME 

"Boyd,  Lulu  wants  you  to  bring  your  cigars 
up-stairs.  The  coffee  is  there,  and  she'd  like 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Soames  about  the  old  Chinese 
things  before  she  begins  to  sing/' 

He  jumped  to  his  feet.  He  was  not  less  con 
strained,  but  some  of  his  uneasiness  had  passed. 
I  could  read  what  was  in  his  mind.  If  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst  I  was  at  least  a  single  man; 
and  the  worst  might  not  come  to  the  worst. 
There  might  be  ways  of  getting  rid  of  me  before 
his  sister  .  .  . 

He  led  the  way  up-stairs.  I  followed  with 
Miss  Averill,  saying  I  have  forgotten  what.  I 
have  forgotten  it  because,  as  we  crossed  the  low- 
ceiled  hall  with  its  monumental  bits  of  furni 
ture,  two  gleaming  eyes  stood  over  me  like  senti 
nels  in  the  air. 


CHAPTER  X 

WITHIN  a  fortnight  my  nearly  two  hun 
dred  dollars  had  come  down  to  nearly 
one,  and  this  in  spite  of  my  self-denials. 

Self-denials  were  new  to  me.  I  knew  that  by 
my  difficulties  in  beginning  to  practise  them. 
Such  economics  as  staying  at  the  Barcelona  in 
stead  of  a  more  luxurious  hotel,  or  as  buying 
ready-made  clothes  instead  of  waiting  for  the 
custom-made,  I  do  not  speak  of  as  self-denials, 
since  they  were  no  more  than  concessions  to  a 
temporary  lack  of  cash.  But  the  first  time  I 
made  my  breakfast  on  one  egg  instead  of  two; 
the  first  time  I  suppressed  the  eggs  altogether; 
the  first  time  I  lunched  on  a  cup  of  chocolate 
taken  at  a  counter;  the  first  time  I  went  without 
a  midday  meal  of  any  kind — these  were  occasions 
when  the  saving  of  pennies  struck  me  as  akin  to 
humiliation.  I  had  formed  no  habits  to  prepare 
me  for  it.  The  possibility  that  it  might  continue 
began  at  last  to  frighten  me. 

For  none  of  my  artful  methods  had  been  suc 
cessful.  I  frequented  the  hotels;  I  hung  about 
the  entrances  to  theaters;  I  tramped  the  streets 
till  a  new  pair  of  boots  became  a  necessity;  but 

101 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

n6  brie  'ever  "h ailed  me  as  an  old  acquaintance. 
Once  only,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  a  great 
restaurant,  did  I  recognize  a  face;  but  it  was 
that  of  Lydia  Blair,  dining  with  a  man.  He 
was  a  big,  round-backed,  silver-haired  man,  with 
an  air  of  opulence  which  suggested  that  Miss 
Blair  might  be  taking  the  career  of  adventuress 
more  seriously  than  I  had  supposed.  Whether 
or  not  she  saw  me  I  couldn't  tell,  for,  to  avoid 
embarrassment  both  for  herself  and  me,  I  with 
drew  to  another  stamping-ground.  What  the 
young  lady  chose  to  do  with  herself  was  no  affair 
of  mine.  Since  a  pretty  girl  of  facile  temper 
ament  would  have  evident  opportunities,  it  was 
not  for  me  to  interfere  with  her.  Had  she  be 
longed  to  my  own  rank  in  life  I  might  have  been 
shocked  or  sorry;  but  every  one  knew  that  a 
beautiful  working-girl  .  .  . 

As  to  my  own  rank  in  life  a  sense  of  going  under 
false  pretenses  added  to  my  anxieties,  though  it 
was  through  no  fault  of  my  own.  Miss  Averill 
persisted  in  giving  me  the  role  of  romantic  seeker 
for  the  hard  facts  of  existence.  She  did  it  only 
by  assumption;  but  she  did  it. 

"There's  nothing  like  seeing  for  oneself,  is 
there?  It's  feeling  for  oneself,  too,  which  is 
more  important.  I'm  so  terribly  cut  off  from  it 
all.  I'm  like  a  bird  in  a  cage  trying  to  help  those 
whose  nests  are  being  robbed." 

This  was  said  during  the  second  of  the  excur 
sions  for  which  Miss  Blair  captured  me  from  the 
lobby  of  the  Barcelona.  Her  procedure  was  ex- 

IO2 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

actly  the  same  as  on  the  first  occasion,  except 
that  she  came  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 
Nothing  but  an  unusual  chance  found  me  sitting 
there,  idle  but  preoccupied,  as  I  meditated  on  my 
situation  while  smoking  a  cigar.  My  first  im 
pulse  to  refuse  Miss  Averill's  invitation  point- 
blank  was  counteracted  by  the  thought  of  escape 
from  that  daily  promenade  up  and  down  the  halls 
of  hotels  which  had  begun  to  be  disheartening 
and  irksome. 

Of  this  the  novelty  had  passed.  The  ex 
pectations  that  during  the  first  week  or  two  had 
made  each  minute  a  living  thing  had  simmered 
away  in  a  sense  of  futility.  No  old  friend  having 
recognized  me  yet,  I  was  working  round  to  the 
conviction  that  no  old  friend  ever  would.  If  I 
kept  up  the  tramp  it  was  because  I  could  see 
nothing  else  to  do. 

But  on  this  particular  afternoon  for  the  first 
time  I  revolted.  The  effect  was  physical,  in 
that  my  feet  seemed  to  be  too  heavy  to  be 
dragged  along.  They  were  refusing  their  job, 
while  my  mind  was  planning  it. 

Thus  in  the  end  I  found  myself  sharing  the 
outing  given  nominally  for  the  blind  boy,  but 
really  planned  from  a  complication  of  motives 
which  to  Miss  Averill  were  obscure.  It  did  not  help 
to  make  them  clearer  that  her  wistful,  unuttered 
appeals  to  me  to  solve  the  mystery  surrounding 
my  personality  passed  by  without  result. 

The  high  bank  of  an  autumn  wood,  the  Hudson 
with  a  steamer  headed  southward,  more  autumn 

103 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

woods  covering  the  hills  beyond,  a  tea-basket, 
tea — this  was  the  decoration.  We  had  alighted 
from  the  motor  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Tarrytown.  Tea  being  over,  Miss  Blair  and 
Drinkwater,  with  chaff  and  laughter,  were  clear 
ing  up  the  things  and  fitting  them  back  into  the 
basket. 

"She's  very  clever  with  him,"  Miss  Averill 
explained,  as  she  led  the  way  to  a  fallen  log,  on 
which  she  seated  herself,  indicating  that  I  might 
sit  beside  her.  "She  seizes  on  anything  that  will 
teach  him  the  use  of  his  fingers,  and  makes  a 
game  of  it.  He's  very  quick,  too.  The  next  time 
he'll  be  able  to  take  the  things  out  of  the  tea-bas 
ket  and  put  them  back  all  by  himself." 

So  we  had  dropped  into  her  favorite  theme, 
the  duty  of  helping  the  helpless. 

She  was  in  brown,  as  usual,  a  brown-green,  that 
might  have  been  a  Scotch  or  Irish  homespun, 
which  blended  with  the  wine  shades  and  russets 
all  about  us  with  the  effect  of  protective  colora 
tion.  The  day  was  as  still  as  death,  so  breathless 
that  the  leaves  had  scarcely  the  energy  to  fall. 
In  the  heavy,  too-sweet  scents  there  was  sug 
gestion  and  incitement — suggestion  that  chances 
were  passing  and  incitement  to  seize  them  before 
they  were  gone. 

I  wish  there  were  words  in  which  to  convey 
the  peculiar  overtones  in  Miss  Averill's  compari 
son  of  herself  with  a  bird  in  a  cage.  There  was 
goodness  in  them,  and  amusement,  as  well  as 
something  baffled  and  enraged.  She  had  been 

104 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

so  subdued  when  I  had  seen  her  hitherto  that 
I  was  hardly  prepared  for  this  half-smothered 
outburst  of  fierceness. 

"If  you're  like  a  bird  in  a  cage,"  I  said,  "you're 
like  the  one  that  sings  to  the  worker  and  cheers 
him  up." 

Her  pleasure  was  expressed  not  in  a  change 
of  color  or  a  drooping  of  the  lids,  but  in  a  quiet 
suffusion  that  might  most  easily  be  described  as 
atmospheric. 

"Oh,  as  for  cheering  people  up — I  don't  know. 
I've  tried  such  a  lot  of  it,  only  to  find  that  they 
got  along  well  enough  without  me.  A  woman 
wants  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world  to 
feel  that  she's  needed;  and  when  she  discovers 
she  isn't — •" 

The  sense  of  my  own  apparent  superfluity  in 
life  prompted  me  to  say: 

"Oh,  it  isn't  only  women  who  discover  that." 

Her  glance  traveled  down  the  steep  wooded 
bank  and  over  the  river,  to  rest  on  the  wine- 
colored  hills  on  the  other  side. 

"Did  you — did  you  ever?" — she  corrected 
herself  quickly — "I  mean — do  men?" 

"Some  men  do.     It's — it's  possible." 

"Isn't  it,"  she  asked,  tackling  the  subject  in 
her  sensible  way,  "primarily  a  question  of  money  ? 
If  you  have  enough  of  it  not  to  have  to  earn  a 
living — and  no  particular  duties — don't  you  find 
yourself  edged  out  of  the  current  of  life?  After 
all,  what  the  world  wants  is  producers;  and  the 
minute  one  doesn't  produce — " 

105 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  do  you  mean  by  producers?" 

She  reflected.  "I  suppose  I  mean  all  who 
contribute,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  either 
mentally  or  physically,  to  the  sum  total  of  our 
needs  in  living.  Wouldn't  that  cover  it?" 

I  admitted  that  it  might. 

"And  those  who  don't  do  that,  who  merely 
live  on  what  others  produce,  seem  to  be  excluded 
from  the  privilege  of  helpfulness." 

"I  can't  see  that.  They  help  with  their 
money." 

"Money  can't  help,  except  indirectly.  It's 
the  great  mistake  of  our  philanthropies  to  think 
it  can.  We  make  a  great  many  mistakes;  but 
we  can  make  more  in  our  philanthropies  than  any 
where  else.  We've  never  taken  the  pains  to 
study  the  psychology  of  help.  We  think  money 
the  panacea  for  every  kind  of  need,  when  as  a 
matter  of  fact  it's  only  the  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  an  inward  and  spiritual  grace.  If  you 
haven't  got  the  grace  the  sign  rings  false,  like 


an  imitation  coin.'3 


"Well,  what  is  the  grace?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  good  many  things — a  blend — of 
which,  I  suppose,  the  main  ingredient  is  love." 
She  gave  me  a  wistful  half-smile,  as  she  added: 
"Love  is  a  very  queer  thing — I  mean  this  kind 
of  big  love  for — just  for  people.  You  can  always 
tell  whether  it's  true  or  false;  and  the  less  sophis 
ticated  the  people  the  more  instinctively  they 
know.  If  it's  true  they'll  accept  you;  if  it's  only 
pumped  up,  they'll  shut  you  out." 

106 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"I'm  sure  you  ought  to  know." 

"I  do  know.  I've  had  a  lot  of  experience — 
in  being  shut  out." 

"You?" 

She  nodded  toward  Drinkwater  and  Miss  Blair. 
"They  don't  let  me  in.  In  spite  of  all  I  try  to 
do  for  them,  they're  only  polite  to  me.  They'll 
accept  this  kind  of  thing;  but  I'm  as  far  outside 
their  confidence — outside  their  hearts — as  a  bird 
in  a  cage,  as  I've  called  myself,  is  outside  a  flock 
of  nest-builders." 

"And  assuming  that  that  is  so — though  I  do 
not  assume  it — how  do  you  account  for  it?" 

"Oh,  easily  enough!  I'm  not  the  real  thing. 
I  never  was — not  at  the  Settlement — not  now — 
not  anywhere  or  at  any  time." 

"But  how  would  you  describe  the  real  thing?" 

"I  can't  describe  it.  All  I  know  is  that  I'm 
not  it.  I'm  not  working  for  them,  but  for  my 
self." 

"For  yourself — how?" 

"To  fill  in  an  empty  life.  When  you've  no 
real  life  you  seek  an  artificial  one.  As  every  one 
rejects  the  artificial,  you  get  rejected.  That's 
all." 

"What  would  you  call  a  real  life — for  your 
self?" 

The  fierceness  with  which  she  had  been  speak 
ing  became  intensified,  even  when  tempered  with 
her  diffident  half-smile. 

"A  life  in  which  there  was  something  I  was 
absolutely  obliged  to  do.  I  begin  to  wonder  if 

107 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

parents  know  how  much  of  the  zest  of  living 
they're  taking  away  from  their  children  by  leav 
ing  them,  as  we  say,  well  provided  for.  When 
there's  nothing  within  reason  you  can't  have 
and  nothing  within  reason  you  can't  do — well, 
then,  you're  out  of  the  running." 

"Is  that  the  way  you  look  at  yourself — as  out 
of  the  running?" 

"That's  the  way  I  am" 

"And  is  there  no  means  of  getting  into  the 
running?" 

"There  might  be  if  I  wasn't  such  a  coward." 

"If  you  weren't  such  a  coward  what  would 
you  do?" 

"Oh,  there  are  things.  You've — you  ve  found 
them.  I  would  do  like  you." 

"And  do  you  know  what  I'm  doing?" 

"I  can  guess." 

"And  you  guess — what?" 

"It's  only  a  guess — of  course." 

"But  what  is  it?" 

She  rose  with  a  weary  gesture.  "What's  the 
good  of  talking  about  it?  A  knight  in  disguise 
remains  in  disguise  till  he  chooses  to  throw  off 
his  incognito." 

"And  when  he  has  thrown  it  off — what  does 
he  become  then?" 

"He  may  become  something  else — but  he's — 
he's  none  the  less — a  knight." 

We  stood  looking  at  each  other,  in  one  of 
those  impulses  of  mutual  frankness  that  are  not 
without  danger. 

108 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"And  if  there  was  a  knight  who — who  couldn't 
throw  off  his  incognito?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Then  I  sup 
pose  he'd  always  be  a  knight  in  disguise — some 
thing  like  Lohengrin." 

"And  what  would  Elsa  think  of  that?" 

Seeing  the  implication  in  this  indiscreet  ques 
tion  even  before  she  did,  I  felt  myself  flush  hotly. 

I  admired  the  more,  therefore,  the  ease  with 
which  she  carried  the  difficult  moment  off.  Mov 
ing  a  few  steps  toward  Drinkwater  and  Miss 
Blair,  who  were  shutting  up  the  tea-basket,  she 
threw  over  her  shoulder: 

"If  there  was  an  Elsa  I  suppose  she'd  make 
up  her  mind  when  the  time  came." 

She  was  still  moving  forward  when  I  overtook 
her  to  say: 

"I  wish  I  could  speak  plainly." 

She  stopped  to  glance  up  at  me.  "And  can't 
you?" 

"Were  you  ever  in  a  situation  which  you  felt 
you  had  to  swing  alone?  You  know  you  could 
get  help;  you  know  you  could  count  on  sym 
pathy;  but  whenever  you're  impelled  to  appeal 
for  either  something  holds  you  back." 

"I  never  was  in  such  a  situation,  but  I  can 
imagine  what  it's  like.  May  I  ask  one  question  ?" 

I  felt  obliged  to  grant  the  permission. 

"Is  it  of  the  nature  of  what  is  generally  called 
trouble?" 

"It's  of  the  nature  of  what  is  generally  called 
misfortune." 

109 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"And  I  suppose  I  mustn't  say  so  much  as  that 
I'm  sorry." 

"You  could  say  that  much,"  I  smiled,  "if  you 
didn't  say  any  more." 

She  repeated  the  weary  gesture  of  a  few  min 
utes  earlier,  a  slight  tossing  outward  of  both 
hands,  with  a  heavy  drop  against  the  sides. 

"What  a  life!" 

As  she  began  to  move  on  once  more  I  spoke 
as  I  walked  beside  her. 

"What's  the  matter  with  life?" 

Again  she  paused  to  confront  me.  In  her 
eyes  gold  lights  gleamed  in  the  brown  depths  of 
the  irises. 

"What  sense  is  there  in  a  civilization  that  cuts 
us  all  off  from  each  other?  We're  like  prisoners 
in  solitary  confinement — you  in  one  cell  and 
Boyd  in  another  and  Lulu  in  another  and  I  in  an 
other,  and  everybody  else  in  his  own  or  her  own 
and  no  communication  or  exchange  of  help  be 
tween  us.  It's — it's  monstrous." 

The  half-choked  passion  of  her  words  took  me 
the  more  by  surprise  for  the  reason  that  she 
treated  me  as  if  the  defects  of  our  civilization 
were  my  fault.  Joining  Lydia  Blair  and  taking 
her  by  the  arm,  she  led  the  way  back  to  the  motor, 
while  I  was  left  to  pilot  Drinkwater,  who  carried 
the  tea-basket.  During  the  drive  back  to  town 
our  hostess  scarcely  spoke,  and  not  once  to  me 
directly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BUT  I  was  troubled  by  all  this,  and  puzzled. 
That  I  couldn't  afford  the  complication  of 
a  love-affair  will  be  evident  to  any  one;  but  that 
a  love-affair  threatened  was  by  no  means  clear. 
As  far  as  that  went  it  was  as  fatuous  on  my  part 
to  think  of  it  as  it  would  have  been  for  Drink- 
water,  except  in  so  far  as  it  involved  danger  to 
myself. 

For  a  few  hours  that  danger  did  not  suggest 
itself.  That  is,  I  was  so  busy  speculating  as  to 
Mildred  Averill's  meaning  that  I  had  no  time  to 
analyze  the  wray  I  was  taking  it.  Weighing  her 
words,  her  impulses,  her  impatiences,  I  saw  no 
more  than  that  she  might  be  offering  her  treasures 
at  the  feet  of  a  wooden  man,  a  carved  and  painted 
figment,  without  history  or  soul. 

That  is,  unless  I  mistook  her  meanings  as  Mal- 
volio  mistook  Viola's ! 

There  was  that  side  to  it,  too.  It  was  the  as 
pect  of  the  case  on  which  I  dwelt  all  through  my 
lonely  dinner.  I  had  not  forgotten  Boyd  Aver- 
ill's  reception  of  me  on  the  Sunday  of  the  lunch 
eon;  I  never  should  forget  it.  There  is  some 
thing  in  being  in  the  house  of  a  man  who  is  anx- 

iii 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

ious  to  get  you  out  of  it  unlike  any  other  form  of 
humiliation.  The  very  fact  that  he  refrains 
from  pointedly  showing  you  the  door  only  gives 
time  for  the  ignominy  to  sink  in.  Nothing  but 
the  habit  of  doing  certain  things  in  a  certain  way 
carried  me  through  those  two  hours  and  enabled 
me  to  take  my  departure  without  incivility.  On 
going  down  the  steps  the  sense  that  I  had  been 
kicked  out  was  far  more  keen  than  if  Averill  had 
given  way  to  the  actual  physical  grossness. 

Some  of  this  feeling,  I  admit,  was  fanciful'.  It 
was  due  to  the  disturbed  imagination  natural 
to  a  man  whose  mental  equipment  has  been  put 
awry.  Averill  had  been  courteous  throughout 
my  visit.  More  than  that,  he  was  by  nature 
kindly.  Anywhere  but  in  his  own  house  his  atti 
tude  to  me  would  have  been  cordial,  and  for  any 
thing  I  needed  he  would  have  backed  me  with 
more  than  his  good-will. 

Nevertheless,  that  Sunday  rankled  as  a  poi 
soned  memory,  and  one  from  which  I  found  it 
impossible  wholly  to  dissociate  any  member  of 
his  family.  Though  I  could  blame  Mrs.  Averill 
a  little,  I  could  blame  Miss  Averill  not  at  all; 
and  yet  she  belonged  to  the  household  in  which 
I  had  been  made  to  feel  an  unwelcome  guest. 
That  in  itself  might  give  me  a  clue  to  her  senti 
ment  toward  me. 

As  I  went  on  with  my  dinner  I  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  it  did  give  me  such  a  clue.  I  was 
the  idiot  Malvolio  thinking  himself  beloved  of 
Viola.  Where  there  was  nothing  but  a  balked 

112 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

philanthropy  I  was  looking  for  the  tender  heart. 
The  dictionary  teemed  with  terms  that  applied 
to  such  a  situation,  and  I  began  to  heap  them 
on  myself. 

I  heaped  them  on  myself  with  a  sense  not  of 
relief,  but  of  disappointment.  That  was  the  odd 
discovery  I  made,  as  much  to  my  surprise  as  my 
chagrin.  Falling  in  love  with  anybody  was  no 
part  of  my  program.  It  was  out  of  the  question 
for  obvious  reasons.  In  addition  to  these  I  was 
in  love  with  some  one  else. 

That  is  to  say,  I  knew  I  had  been  in  love;  I 
knew  that  in  the  portion  of  my  life  that  had  be 
come  obscured  there  had  been  an  emotional 
drama  of  which  the  consciousness  remained.  It 
remained  as  a  dream  remains  when  we  remember 
the  vividness  and  forget  the  facts — but  it  re 
mained.  I  could  view  my  personality  some 
what  as  you  view  a  countryside  after  a  storm 
has  passed  over  it.  Without  having  witnessed 
the  storm  you  can  tell  what  it  was  from  the  havoc 
left  behind.  There  was  some  such  havoc  in  my 
self. 

Just  as  I  could  look  into  the  glass  and  see 
a  face  young,  haggard,  handsome,  if  I  may  use 
the  word  without  vanity,  that  seemed  not  to  be 
mine,  so  I  could  look  into  my  heart  and  read  the 
suffering  of  which  I  no  longer  perceived  the  causes. 
It  was  like  looking  at  the  scar  of  a  wound  re 
ceived  before  you  can  remember.  Your  body 
must  have  bled  from  it,  your  nerves  must  have 
ached;  even  now  it  is  numb  or  sensitive;  but 
8  113 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

its  history  is  lost  to  you.  It  was  once  the  out 
standing  fact  of  your  childish  existence;  and  now 
all  of  which  you  are  aware  is  something  atro 
phied,  lacking,  or  that  shrinks  at  a  touch. 

In  just  that  way  I  knew  that  passion  had  once 
flashed  through  my  life,  but  had  left  me  nothing 
but  the  memory  of  a  memory.  I  could  trace  its 
path  almost  as  easily  as  you  can  follow  the  track 
of  a  tornado  through  a  town — by  the  wreckage. 
I  mean  by  the  wreckage  an  emotional  weariness, 
an  emotional  distress,  an  emotional  distaste  for 
emotion;  but  above  everything  else  I  mean  a 
craving  to  begin  the  emotion  all  over  again, 

I  often  wondered  if  some  passional  experience 
hadn't  caused  the  shattering  of  the  brain  cells. 
I  often  wondered  if  the  woman  I  had  loved  was 
not  dead.  I  wondered  if  I  might  not  even  have 
killed  her.  Was  that  the  crime  from  which  I 
was  running  away?  Were  the  Furies  pursuing 
me?  Was  it  to  be  my  punishment  to  fall  in  love 
with  another  woman  and  suffer  the  second  time 
because  the  first  suffering  had  defeated  its  own 
ends  in  making  me  insensible? 

All  through  the  evening  thoughts  of  this  kind, 
now  and  then  with  a  half-feverish  turn,  ran 
through  my  mind,  till  by  the  time  I  went  to  bed 
love  no  longer  seemed  impossible.  It  was  ap 
palling;  and  yet  it  had  a  fascination. 

So  for  the  next  few  days  I  walked  with  a  vision 
pure,  unobtrusive,  subdued,  holy  in  its  way, 
which  nevertheless  broke  into  light  and  passion 
and  flame  that  nobody  but  myself  was  probably 

114 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

aware  of.  I  also  gleaned  from  Lydia  Blair,  who 
had  a  journalistic  facility  in  gathering  personal 
facts,  that  Mildred  Ave rill's  place  in  New  York 
life  was  not  equal  to  her  opportunities. 

"There  are  always  girls  like  that,"  Miss  Blair 
commented.  "They've  got  all  the  chances  in  the 
world,  and  don't  know  how  to  make  use  of  them. 
She's  not  a  bad  looker,  not  when  you  come  to 
study  her;  and  yet  you  couldn't  show  her  off  with 
the  dressiest  models  in  New  York." 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  showing  off  might 
not  be  Miss  Averill's  ambition. 

"And  a  good  thing  too,  poor  dear.  If  it  was 
it  would  be  the  limit.  She  sure  has  the  sense  to 
know  what  she  can't  do.  That's  something. 
Look  here,  Harry,"  she  continued,  sharply,  "I 
told  you  before  that  if  you're  going  to  take  letters 
down  from  the  dictaphone  you've  got  to  read 
them  through  to  the  end  before  you  begin  to 
transcribe.  Then  you'll  know  where  the  cor 
rections  come  in.  Now  you've  got  to  go  back 
and  begin  all  over  again.  See  here,  my  dear! 
If  you  think  I'm  going  to  waste  my  perfectly 
good  time  giving  you  lessons  that  you  don't  listen 
to  you've  got  your  nerve  with  you." 

It  was  one  of  my  rare  visits  to  Miss  Flower- 
dew's  dark  front  parlor,  of  which  Drinkwater  had 
the  use,  and  I  was  making  the  call  for  a  purpose. 
I  knew  there  were  certain  afternoons  when  Miss 
Blair  "breezed  in,"  as  she  expressed  it,  to  give 
some  special  lesson  to  her  pupil;  and  I  had  heard 
once  or  twice  that  on  such  occasions  Miss  Averill, 

"5 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

too,  had  come  to  lend  him  her  encouragement. 
Nominally  she  brought  a  cylinder  from  which 
Drinkwater  was  to  copy  the  letters  her  brother 
had  dictated;  but  really  her  mission  was  one  of 
sympathy.  Seeing  the  boy  in  such  good  hands, 
and  happy  in  his  lot,  I  had  the  less  compunction 
in  leaving  him  alone.  I  left  him  alone,  as  I  have 
said,  in  order  not  to  be  identified  more  than  I 
could  help  with  two  stenographers. 

My  visit  of  this  day  was  notably  successful 
in  that  I  obtained  from  Miss  Blair  her  own  sum 
ming  up  of  the  social  position  of  the  Averill 
family. 

As  far  as  they  carried  a  fasionable  tag  it  was 
musical.  Mrs.  Averill  had  a  box  at  the  opera, 
and  was  seen  at  all  the  great  concerts.  She  en-  ' 
tertained  all  the  great  singers  and  all  wandering 
celebrities  of  the  piano  and  violin.  Before  she 
went  to  Europe  she  had  begun  to  make  a  place 
for  herself  with  her  Sunday  afternoons,  at  which 
one  heard  the  most  renowned  artists  of  the  world 
singing  or  playing  for  friendship's  sake.  In  her 
own  special  line  she  might  by  now  have  been  one 
of  the  most  important  hostesses  in  New  York 
had  it  not  been  for  her  constitutional  weakness 
in  "chucking  things." 

She  had  always  chucked  things  just  when  be 
ginning  to  make  a  success  of  them.  She  had 
chucked  her  career  as  a  girl  in  good  society  in 
order  to  work  for  the  concert  stage.  She  had 
chucked  the  concert  stage  in  order  to  marry  a 
rich  man.  She  had  chucked  the  advantages  of 

116 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

being  a  rich  man's  wife  while  in  the  full  tide  of 
social  recognition.  With  immense  ambitions, 
she  lacked  steadiness  of  purpose,  and  so,  according 
to  Miss  Blair,  she  was  always  "getting  left." 
Getting  left  implied  that  as  far  as  New  York  was 
concerned  Lulu  Averill  was  nowhere  when  she 
might  easily  have  been  somewhere,  with  a  con 
sequent  feeling  on  her  part  of  boredom  and  dis 
appointment. 

It  reacted  on  her  husband  in  compelling  him 
to  work  in  unsettled  conditions  and  without 
the  leisure  and  continuity  so  essential  to  research. 
Miss  Blair's  expression  was  that  the  poor  man 
never  knew  where  he  was  at.  Adoring  his 
wife,  he  was  the  more  helplessly  at  her  beck  and 
call,  for  the  reason  that  he  had  long  ago  come  to 
the  knowledge  that  his  wife  didn't  adore  him. 
Holding  her  only  by  humoring  her  whims,  he 
was  just  now  struggling  with  her  caprice  to  go 
back  to  the  concert  stage  again. 

To  Mildred  Averill  all  this  made  little  differ 
ence  because  she  had  none  of  the  aims  commonly 
grouped  as  social.  Miss  Blair  understood  that 
from  her  childhood  she  had  been  studious,  serious, 
living  quietly  with  her  elderly  parents  at  Morris- 
town,  and  acquiring  their  elderly  tastes.  "It's 
fierce  the  way  old  people  hamper  a  girl,"  Lydia 
commented.  "Just  because  they're  your  father 
or  mother  they  think  they've  a  right  to  suck  your 
life-blood  like  a  leech.  My  mother  died  when  I 
was  sixteen,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  of  commenda 
tion.  "Of  course  you're  lonely-like  at  times — 

117 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

but  then  you're  free/'  Freedom  to  Mildred 
Averill,  however,  was  all  the  same  as  being  bound. 
She  didn't  know  how  to  make  use  of  liberty  or 
give  herself  a  good  time.  When  her  father  died 
she  stayed  on  with  her  mother  at  Morristown, 
and  when  the  mother  "punched  the  clock  for 
the  next  life" — the  figure  was  Miss  Blair's — she 
simply  joined  her  brother  and  sister-in-law  in 
New  York.  After  she  went  out  of  mourning 
she  was  sometimes  seen  at  a  concert  or  the  opera 
with  Mrs.  Averill.  There  was  no  more  to  her 
social  life  than  that  and  an  occasional  dinner. 
"Gray-blooded,  I  call  it,"  Miss  Blair  threw  in 
again,  "and  a  sinful  waste  of  good  chances.  My! 
if  I  had  them!" 

"Perhaps  you  can  have  them,"  I  suggested, 
Harry  Drinkwater  having  gone  for  a  minute  to 
his  room.  "Miss  Averill  told  me  one  day  that 
she  thought  of  taking  a  house  and  asking  you  to 
live  with  her." 

"Me?  Do  you  see  me  playing  second  fiddle 
to  a  girl  as  sure  bound  to  be  an  old  maid  as  I'm 
bound  to  be — 

"An  adventuress." 

"I'm  bound  to  be  an  adventuress — if  I  like." 

"Oh,  then  there's  a  modification  to  your  pro 
gram.  The  last  time  we  talked  about  it  you 
were  going  to  do  it.  Now  it's  only — if  you 
like." 

Her  lovely  blue  eyes  shot  me  a  look  of  protest. 
"You  wouldn't  want  me  to  do  it — if  I  didn't  like. 
The  worst  of  being  an  adventuress  is  the  kind 

118 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

of  guys  you  must  adventure  with.     You  don't 
mean  to  thrust  them  down  my  throat." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  urging  you  at  all.  I  did  happen 
to  see  you  one  evening  at  the  restaurant  Blitz — " 

She  nodded.  "I  saw  you.  What  were  you  do 
ing  there?  You  don't  feed  at  places  like  that.1' 

"How  do  you  know  I  don't?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  That's  just  the  trouble. 
Sometimes  I  think  you're  a — " 

"I'm  a— what?" 

"See  here!  You  give  me  the  creeps.  Do  you 
know  it?" 

"How?" 

"Well,  you  saw  that  guy  I  was  with  at  the 
Blitz." 

"Looked  like  a  rich  fathead." 

"Yes;  but  you  know  he's  a  rich  fathead. 
He's  as  clear  as  a  glass  of  water.  You're  like" — 
she  paused  for  a  simile — "you're  like  something 
that  might  be  a  cocktail — and  might  be  a  dose 
of  poison."  She  turned  on  me  with  a  new  flash 
in  her  blue  eyes.  "Look  here!  Tell  me  honest, 
now.  Are  you  a  swell  crook — or  ain't  you?" 

"Suppose  I  say  that — that  I  ain't." 

"Say,  kid!"  she  responded,  coldly,  "talk  like 
yourself,  will  you?"  She  threw  her  hands  apart, 
palms  outward.  "Well,  if  you're  not  a  swell 
crook  I  can't  make  you  out." 

"But  as  a  swell  crook  you  could.     Is  that  it?" 

"Why  do  you  keep  hanging  round  Miss  Aver- 
ill?"  she  asked,  bluntly.  "What  do  you  expect 
to  get  by  that?" 

119 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  do  you  expect  to  get  by  asking  me?" 

Her  reply  was  a  kind  of  challenge.  "The 
truth.  Do  you  know  it?" 

I  felt  uncomfortable.  It  was  one  of  the  rare 
occasions  on  which  I  had  seen  this  flower-like  face 
drop  its  bantering  mask  and  grow  serious.  The 
voix  de  Montmartre  had  deepened  in  tone  and  put 
me  on  the  defensive. 

"I  thought  you  told  me  on  board  ship  that 
you  looked  on  all  people  of  Miss  Averiirs  class 
as  the  prey  of  those  in — in  ours." 

"I  don't  care  what  I  told  you  on  board  ship. 
You're  to  keep  where  you  belong  as  far  as  she's 
concerned — or  I'll  give  the  whole  bloomin'  show 
away,  as  they  say  in  English  vawdville." 

"There  again;  it's  what  you  said  you  wouldn't 
do.  You  said  you'd  be  my  friend — " 

"I'll  be  your  friend  right  up  to  there — but 
that's  the  high-water  mark." 

I  thought  it  permissible  to  change  my  front. 
"If  it  comes  to  that,  I've  done  no  hanging  round 
Miss  Averill  on  my  own  account.  It's  you 
who've  come  for  me  to  the  Hotel  Barcelona  every 


time—" 


"Harry  made  me  do  that;  but  even  so — well, 
you  don't  have  to  fall  in  the  water  just  because 
you're  standing  on  a  wharf." 

"It  doesn't  hurt  the  water  if  you  do.  You 
can  get  soaked,  and  make  yourself  look  ridicu 
lous,  but  the  beautiful  blue  sea  doesn't  mind." 

"You  can  make  it  splash  something  awful, 
and  send  ripples  all  over  the  lot.  Don't  you  be 

1 20 


She  turned  on  me  with  a  new  flash  in  her  blue  eyes.    "Look 
here!     Tell  me  honest,  now.     Are  you   a  swell  crook — 
or  ain't  you?"     "Suppose  I  say  that — that  I  ain't."     "Say, 
kid!"    she   responded,   coldly,   "talk  like  yourself,  will  you? 
...  If  you're  not   a  swell   crook   I   can't  make  you   out." 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

too  sure  of  not  being  dangerous.  You  wouldn't 
be  everybody's  choice — but  you  have  that  ro 
mantic  way — like  a  prince-guy  off  the  level — 
and  she  not  used  to  men — or  having  a  lot  of  them 
around  her  all  the  time,  like — " 

"Like  you.39 

"Like  me,"  she  accepted,  composedly;  "and 
so  if  I  see  anything  that's  not  on  the  square  I'll — 
I'll  hand  out  the  right  dope  about  you  without 
the  least  pity." 

"And  when  you  hand  out  the  right  dope  about 
me  what  will  it  be?" 

"You  poor  old  kid,  what  do  you  think  it  will 
be?  If  you  make  people  think  you're  a  swell 
crook  it's  almost  the  same  as  being  one." 

"But  do  I  make  people  think  I'm  a  swell 
crook?" 

"You  make  me." 

"What  do  I  do  to—" 

"It's  not  what  you  do,  it's  what  you  don't 
do — or  what  you  don't  say.  Why  don't  you  tell 
people  who  you  are,  or  what  your  business  is, 
or  where  you  come  from  ?  Everybody  can  hitch 
on  to  something  in  a  world,  but  you  don't  seem 
to  belong  anywhere.  If  any  one  asks  you  a 
question  it's  always  No!  No!  No!  till  you 
can  tell  what  your  answer  will  be  beforehand. 
Surely  there's  a  Yes  somewhere  in  your  life! 
If  you  always  hide  it  you  can't  blame  people  for 
thinking  there's  something  to  be  hidden." 

"And  yet  you'd  be  my  friend." 

"Oh,  I've  been  friends  to  worse  than  that. 
121 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  wasn't  born  yesterday — not  by  a  lot.  All  I 
say  is,  'Hands  off  little  old  Milly  Averill!'  but 
for  the  rest  you  can  squeak  along  in  your  own 
way.  I'm  a  good  sort.  I  don't  interfere  with 
any  one." 

Drinkwater  being  on  the  threshold  and  the 
conversation  having  yielded  me  all  I  hoped  to 
get,  I  made  an  excuse  for  going.  Miss  Averill 
had  not  appeared,  and  now  I  was  glad  of  it. 
Had  she  come  I  could  not  have  met  her  under 
Lydia's  cold  eye  without  self-consciousness.  It 
began  to  strike  me,  too,  that  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  was  to  step  out  from  the  circle  of  all  their  lives 
and  leave  no  clue  behind  me. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  not  a  new  reflection,  as  you  know;  and 
of  late  it  had  been  growing  more  insistent. 
The  truth  is  that  I  needed  to  find  work.  My 
nearly  one  hundred  dollars  was  melting  away 
with  unbelievable  rapidity.  Expenses  being  re 
duced  to  a  rule  of  thumb,  I  could  count  the  days 
after  which  I  shouldn't  have  a  cent.  Winter 
was  coming.  Already  there  were  mornings  with 
the  nip  of  frost  in  them.  I  should  require  boots, 
clothes,  warm  things  of  all  sorts.  Food  and 
shelter  I  couldn't  do  without. 

It  was  the  incredible,  the  impossible.  Neb 
uchadnezzar  driven  from  men  and  eating  grass 
like  an  ox  couldn't  have  been  more  surprised  to 
see  himself  in  such  a  state  of  want.  Some 
where,  out  of  the  memories  that  had  not  dis 
appeared,  I  drew  the  recollection  that  to  need 
boots  and  not  be  able  to  afford  them  had  been 
my  summary  of  an  almost  inhuman  degree  of 
poverty.  I  could  remember  trying  to  picture 
what  it  would  be  like  to  find  myself  in  such  a 
situation  and  not  being  able  to  do  so.  I  had 
bought  a  new  pair  since  coming  to  New  York, 
and  they  were  already  wearing  thin. 

123 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

It  came  to  me  again — it  came  to  me  constantly, 
of  course — that  I  could  save  myself  by  going  to 
some  sympathetic  person  and  telling  him  my  tale. 
I  rejected  now  the  idea  of  making  Boyd  Averill 
my  confidant;  but  there  were  other  possibilities. 
There  were  doctors,  clergymen,  policemen.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  people  who  suffered  from  am 
nesia,  and  who  didn't  know  their  names,  generally 
applied  to  the  police. 

In  the  end  I  opted  for  a  clergyman  as  being 
the  most  human  of  these  agencies.  Vaguely  I 
was  aware  that  vaguely  I  belonged  to  a  certain 
church.  I  had  tested  myself  along  the  line  of 
religion  as  well  as  along  other  lines,  with  the  dis 
covery  that  the  services  of  one  church  were  fa 
miliar,  while  those  of  others  were  not. 

From  the  press  I  learned  that  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Scattlethwaite,  the  head  of  a  large  and  wealthy 
congregation,  was  perhaps  the  best  known  ex 
ponent  in  New  York  of  modern  scientific  benef 
icence,  and  by  attendance  at  one  of  his  services 
I  got  the  information  that  at  fixed  hours  of  every 
day  he  was  in  his  office  at  his  parish  house  for 
the  purpose  of  meeting  those  in  trouble.  It  was 
a  simple  matter,  therefore,  to  present  myself, 
and  be  met  on  the  threshold  of  his  waiting-room 
by  the  young  lady  who  acted  as  his  secretary. 

She  was  a  portly  young  lady,  light  on  her  feet, 
quick  in  her  movements,  dressed  in  black,  with 
blond  fluffy  hair,  and  a  great  big  welcoming  smile. 
The  reception  was  much  the  same  as  in  any 
doctor's  office,  and  I  think  she  diagnosed  my 

124 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

complaint  as  the  drug  habit.  Asking  me  to  take 
a  seat  she  assured  me  that  Doctor  Scattlethwaite 
would  see  me  as  soon  as  he  was  disengaged. 
When  she  had  returned  to  her  desk,  where  she 
seemed  to  make  endless  notes,  I  had  leisure  to 
look  about  me. 

Except  for  a  large  white  wooden  cross  between 
two  doors,  it  might  have  been  a  waiting-room  in 
a  hospital.  Something  in  the  atmosphere  sug 
gested  people  meeting  agonies — or  perhaps  it  was 
something  in  myself.  As  far  as  that  went,  there 
were  no  particular  agonies  in  the  long  table 
strewn  with  illustrated  papers  and  magazines, 
nor  in  the  bookrack  containing  eight  or  ten  well- 
thumbed  novels.  Neither  were  agonies  sug 
gested  by  the  Arundel  print  of  the  Resurrection 
on  one  bit  of  wall-space,  nor  by  the  large  framed 
photograph  of  the  Arch  of  Constantine  on 
another.  All  the  same  there  was  that  in  the  air 
which  told  one  that  no  human  being  in  the  world 
would  ever  come  into  this  room  otherwise  than 
against  his  will. 

And  yet  in  that  I  may  be  wrong,  considering 
how  many  people  there  are  who  enjoy  the  luxury 
of  sorrow.  I  guessed,  for  example,  that  the  well- 
dressed  woman  in  mourning  who  sat  diagonally 
opposite  me  was  carrying  her  grief  to  every  pastor 
in  New  York  and  refusing  to  be  comforted  by 
any.  Another  woman  in  mourning,  rusty  and 
cheap  in  her  case,  flanked  by  two  vacant-eyed 
children,  had  evidently  come  to  collect  a  portion 
of  the  huge  financial  bill  she  was  able  to  present 

125 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

against  fate.  An  extremely  thin  lady,  with 
eyes  preternaturally  wide  open,  was  perhaps  a 
sufferer  from  insomnia,  while  the  little  old  man 
with  broken  boots  and  a  long  red  nose  was  plainly 
an  ordinary  "  bum."  These  were  my  companions 
except  that  a  beaming  lady  of  fifty  or  so,  dressed 
partly  like  a  Salvation  Army  lassie  and  partly 
like  a  nun,  and  whom  I  took  to  be  Doctor 
Scattlethwaite's  deaconess  en  titre,  bustled  in 
and  out  for  conferences  with  the  fluffy-haired 
girl  at  the  desk. 

I  beguiled  the  waiting,  which  was  long  and 
tedious,  by  co-ordinating  my  tale  so  as  to  get  the 
main  points  into  salience.  It  was  about  ten  in 
the  morning  when  I  arrived,  and  around  half 
past  ten  the  lady  who  had  first  claim  on  Doctor 
Scattlethwaite  came  out  from  her  audience. 
She  was  young  and  might  have  been  pretty  if 
she  hadn't  been  so  hollow-eyed  and  walked  with 
her  handkerchief  pressed  closely  to  her  lips.  I 
put  her  down  as  a  case  of  nervous  prostration. 

The  lady  with  the  inconsolable  sorrow  was  next 
summoned  by  the  secretary,  and  so  one  after 
another  those  who  had  preceded  me  went  in  to 
take  their  turns.  Mine  came  after  the  old 
"bum,"  when  it  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

The  room  was  a  kind  of  library.  I  retain  an 
impression  of  books  lining  the  walls,  a  leather- 
covered  lounge,  one  or  two  leather-covered  easy- 
chairs,  and  a  large  flat-topped  desk  in  the  center 
of  the  floor-space.  Behind  the  desk  stood  a 
short,  square-shouldered  man  in  a  dark-gray 

126 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

clerical  attire,  with  a  squarish,  benevolent,  clean 
shaven  face,  and  sharp,  small  eyes  which  studied 
me  as  I  crossed  the  floor.  His  aspect  and  atti 
tude  were  business-like,  and  business-like  was  his 
manner  of  shaking  hands  as  he  asked  me  to  sit 
down.  An  upright  arm-chair  stood  at  the  cor 
ner  of  the  desk,  and  as  I  took  it  he  resumed  his 
seat  in  his  own  revolving-chair  which  he  tilted 
slightly  backward.  With  his  elbows  on  the 
arms  and  fitting  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together, 
he  waited  for  me  to  state  my  errand,  eying  me 
all  the  while. 

Relieved  and  yet  slightly  disconcerted  by  this 
non-committal  bearing,  I  stumbled  through  my 
story  less  coherently  than  I  had  meant  to  tell 
it.  Badly  narrated,  it  was  preposterous,  es 
pecially  as  coming  from  a  man  in  seemingly  full 
possession  of  his  faculties.  All  that  enabled  me 
to  continue  was  that  my  hearer  listened  atten 
tively,  with  no  outward  appearance  of  dis 
believing  me. 

"And  you've  come  to  me  for  advice  as  to  the 
wise  thing  for  you  to  do,"  he  said,  not  unsympa- 
thetically,  when  I  had  brought  my  lame  story 
to  a  close. 

"That's  about  it,"  I  agreed,  though  conscious 
of  a  regret  at  having  come  at  all. 

"Then  the  first  thing  I  should  suggest,"  he 
continued,  never  taking  his  penetrating  eyes 
from  my  face,  "is  that  you  should  see  a  doctor — 
a  specialist — a  neurologist.  I'll  give  you  a  line 
to  Doctor  Glegg — " 

127 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  would  he  do?"  I  ventured  to  question. 

"That  would  depend  on  whether  or  not  you 
could  pay  for  treatment.  I  presume,  from  what 
you've  said  of  your  funds  giving  out,  that  you 
couldn't." 

"No,  I  couldn't,"  I  assented,  reddening. 

"Then  he'd  probably  put  you  for  observation 
into  the  free  psychopathic  ward  at  Mount  OH- 


vet—" 


"Is  that  an  insane-asylum?" 

"We  don't  have  insane-asylums  nowadays; 
but  in  any  case  it  isn't  what  you  mean.  It's 
a  sanitarium  for  brain  diseases — " 

"I  shouldn't  want  to  go  to  a  place  like  that." 

"Then  what  would  you  suggest  doing?" 

"I  thought — "  But  I  was  not  sura  as  to 
what  I  had  thought.  Hazily  I  had  imagined 
some  Christian  detective  agency  hunting  up  my 
family,  restoring  my  name,  and  giving  me  back 
my  check-book.  It  was  probably  on  the  last 
detail  that  unconsciously  to  myself  I  was  laying 
the  most  emphasis.  "I  thought,1'  I  stammered, 
after  a  slight  pause,  "that — that  you  might  be 
inclined  to — to  help  me." 

"With  money?" 

The  question  was  so  direct  as  to  take  me  by 
surprise. 

"I  didn't  know  exactly  how — " 

"An  average  of  about  fifteen  peopie  come  to 
see  me  every  day,"  he  said,  in  his  calm,  business 
like  voice,  "and  of  the  fifteen  about  five  are  men. 
And  of  the  five  men  an  average  of  four  come* 

128 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

with  one  plausible  tale  or  other,  to  get  money 
out  of  me  under  false  pretenses/' 

I  shot  out  of  my  seat.  The  anger  choking  me 
was  hardly  allayed  by  the  raising  of  his  hand 
and  his  suave,  "Sit  down  again. "  He  went  on 
quietly,  as  I  sank  back  into  my  chair:  "I  only 
want  you  to  see  that  with  all  men  who  come 
telling  me  strange  tales  my  first  impulse  must  be 
suspicion." 

Indignation  almost  strangled  me.  "And — 
and — am  I  to  understand  that — that  it's  sus 
picion — now?" 

''So  long  as  money  is  a  factor  in  the  case  it 
must  be — till  everything  is  explained." 

"But  everything  is  explained/' 

"To  your  satisfaction — possibly;    but  hardly 


to  mine." 


"Then  what  explanation  would  be  satisfac 
tory  to  you?" 

"Oh,  any  of  two  or  three.  Since  you  decline 
to  put  yourself  under  Doctor  Glegg,  you  might 
be  able  to  offer  some  corroboration." 

"But  I  can't.  I've  kept  my  secret  so  closely 
that  no  one  has  heard  it  but  myself.  The  few 

people  I  know  would  be  as  incredulous  as  you 

? » 
are. 

"I  don't  say  that  I'm  incredulous;  I'm  only 
on  my  guard.  Don't  you  see?  I  have  to  be." 

"But  surely  when  a  man  is  speaking  the  truth 
his  manner  must  carry  some  conviction." 

"I  wish  I  could  think  so;  but  I've  believed 
so  many  false  yarns  on  the  strength  of  a  man's 
9  129 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

manner,  and  disbelieved  so  many  true  ones  on 
the  same  evidence,  that  I  no  longer  trust  my 
own  judgment.  But  please  don't  be  annoyed. 
If  your  mental  condition  is  such  as  you  describe, 
I'm  proposing  the  most  scientific  treatment  you 
can  get  in  New  York.  In  addition  to  that,  I 
know  that  Doctor  Glegg  has  had  a  number  of 
such  cases  and  has  cured  them." 

"You  know  that?" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  that  they've  been 
cured  while  under  his  care.  I  think  I've  heard 
him  say  that  as  a  matter  of  fact  they've  cured 
themselves.  Without  knowing  much  of  the 
malady,  I  rather  think  it's  one  of  those  in  which 
time  restores  the  ruptured  tissues,  with  the  aid 
of  mental  rest." 

"If  that's  all—" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  that  it's  all;  but  as  far  as 
I  understand  it's  a  large  part  of  it.  But  then 
I  don't  understand  very  much.  That's  why  I'm 
suggesting — " 

"I  could  get  mental  rest  of  my  own  accord 
if—" 

"Yes?     If— what?" 

"If  I  could  find  out  who — who  I  am." 

"And  you've  no  clues  at  all?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Have  you  heard  no  names  that  were  familiar 
to  you — ?" 

"Scores  of  them;  but  none  with  which  I  could 
connect  myself." 

"And  did  you  think  I  could  find  out  for  you 
130 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

what  you  yourself  have  not  been  able  to  dis 
cover?" 

"I   didn't  know  but  what  you  might  have 


means." 


"What  means  could  I  have?  As  far  as  I've 
ever  heard,  the  only  way  of  tracing  a  lost  man 
is  through  the  police — with  detectives — and 
publicity — descriptions  in  the  papers — photo 
graphs  thrown  on  screens — that  sort  of  thing. 
I  don't  think  there's  any  other  way." 

I  took  perhaps  two  minutes,  perhaps  three,  to 
ponder  these  possibilities.  In  the  end  they 
seemed  to  magnify  my  misfortune. 

"Then,  sir,  that's  all  you  can  do  for  me?'* 

"Remember  that  I  should  be  doing  a  great 
deal  if  I  got  you  to  put  yourself  under  Doctor 
Glegg." 

"In  the  free  psychopathic  ward  of  a  sani 
tarium  for  diseases  of  the  brain — to  be  watched." 

"To  be  under  observation.     There's  a  differ 


ence." 


"All  the  observation  in  the  world  wouldn't 
tell   Doctor  Glegg  more  than  I'm  telling  you 


now." 


"Oh  yes,  it  would.  It  would  tell  him — it 
would  tell  me — you  must  excuse  me,  you  know — • 
but  the  situation  obliges  me  to  speak  frankly — • 
it  would  tell  him — it  would  tell  me — whether 
or  not  your  story  is  a  true  one." 

"So  you  don't  believe  me?" 

"How  can  I  believe  you  on  the  strength  of 
this  one  interview?" 

131 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"But  how  could  I  convince  you  in  a  dozen 
interviews?" 

"You  couldn't.  Nothing  would  convince  me 
but  something  in  the  way  of  outside  proof — or 
Doctor  Glegg's  report." 

I  rose,  not  as  I  did  before,  but  slowly,  and  I 
hoped  with  dignity. 

"Then  I  see  no  reason,  sir,  for  taking  your 
time  any  longer — " 

He  too  rose,  business-like,  imperturable. 

"My  dear  young  man,  I  must  leave  that  to 
yoUo  My  time  is  entirely  at  your  disposal  and 
all  my  good-will." 

"Thanks." 

"And  I'll  go  as  far  as  to  say  this,  that  I  think 
the  probabilities  are  in  your  favor.  I  will  even 
add  that  if  I  hadn't  thought  so  in  a  hundred  other 
cases,  in  which  men  whom  I  pitied — trusted — 
and  aided — were  making  me  a  dupe —  You 
see,  I've  been  at  this  thing  a  good  many  years — " 

Managing  somehow  to  bow  myself  out,  I  got 
into  the  air  again.  I  attributed  my  wrath  to 
the  circumstances  of  not  being  taken  at  my  word; 
but  the  real  pang  lay  in  the  thought  of  being 
watched,  as  a  type  of  mild  lunatic  and  a  pauper. 


PART   II 


CHAPTER  I 

I  HAD  made  this  experiment  as  a  concession 
to  what  you  will  consider  common  sense. 
Ever  since  landing  in  New  York  the  idea  that  the 
natural  thing  to  do  was  to  make  my  situation 
known  had  haunted  me.  Well,  I  had  made  it 
known,  much  against  the  grain,  with  results  such 
as  I  had  partly  expected.  I  had  laid  myself 
open  to  the  semi-accusation  of  trumping  up  a 
cock-and-bull  story  to  get  money  under  false 
pretenses. 

So  no  one  could  help  me  but  myself!  I  had 
felt  that  from  the  first,  and  now  I  was  confirmed 
in  the  conviction.  It  was  useless  either  to  com 
plain  or  to  rebel.  Certain  things  were  to  be 
done,  and  no  choice  remained  with  me  but  to  do 
them  in  the  heartiest  way  possible.  I  had  the 
wit  to  see  th  at  the  heartier  the  way  the  more  likely  I 
was  to  attain  to  the  mental  rest  which  was  ap 
parently  a  condition  of  my  recovery. 

From  this  point  of  view  work  became  even 
more  pressing  than  before,  and  I  searched  my 
self  for  things  that  I  could  do. 

Of  all  my  experiences  this  was  the  most  baffling. 
In  the  same  way  that  I  knew  I  had  enjoyed  a 
generous  income  I  knew  I  had  never  been  an 

135 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

idler.  That  is,  I  knew  it  by  the  habit  of  a  habit. 
I  had  the  habit  of  a  habit  of  occupation.  I  got 
up  each  morning  with  a  sense  of  things  to  do. 
Finding  nothing  to  be  done,  I  felt  thwarted,  irri 
tated,  uneasy  in  the  conscience.  I  must  always 
have  worked,  even  if  pay  had  not  been  a  matter 
of  importance. 

But  what  had  I  worked  at?  I  had  not  been 
a  doctor,  nor  a  lawyer,  nor  a  clergyman,  nor  a 
banker,  nor  a  merchant,  nor  a  manufacturer,  nor 
a  teacher,  nor  a  journalist,  nor  a  writer,  nor 
a  painter,  nor  an  actor,  nor  a  sculptor,  nor  a  civil 
engineer.  All  this  was  easy  to  test  by  the  things 
I  didn't  know  and  couldn't  do.  I  could  ride  and 
drive  and  run  a  motor-car.  I  had  played  tennis 
and  golf  and  taken  an  interest  in  yachting  and 
aviation.  I  could  not  say  that  I  had  played 
polo,  but  I  had  looked  on  at  matches,  and  had 
also  frequented  horse-races,  These  facts  came 
to  me  not  so  much  as  memories,  but  as  part  of 
a  general  epuipment.  But  I  could  find  no  sense 
of  a  profession. 

Thrown  back  on  the  occupations  I  can  only 
class  as  nondescript,  I  began  looking  for  a  job. 
That  is,  I  began  to  study  the  advertised  lists  of 
"Wants"  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  one  in 
search  of  the  special  line  of  aptitude  implied  by 
cultivation.  I  had  some  knowledge  of  books, 
of  pictures,  of  tapestries,  of  prints.  Music  was 
as  familiar  to  me  as  to  most  people  who  have 
sat  through  a  great  many  concerts,  and  I  had 
followed  such  experiments  as  those  of  the  Abbey 

136 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Theater  in  Dublin  and  Miss  Horniman's  Man 
chester  Players  in  connection  with  the  stage. 

Unfortunately,  there  was  no  clamor  for  these 
accomplishments  in  the  press  of  New  York  and 
the  neighboring  cities,  the  end  of  a  week's  study 
finding  me  just  where  I  began.  For  chauffeurs 
and  salesmen  there  were  chances;  but  for  people 
of  my  order  of  attainment  there  were  none.  I 
thought  of  what  Mildred  Averill  had  said  during 
our  last  conversation: 

"After  all,  what  the  world  wants  is  producers; 
and  the  moment  one  doesn't  produce — " 

She  left  her  sentence  there  because  all  had  been 
said.  The  world  wanted  producers  and  was 
ready  to  give  them  work.  It  would  also  give 
them  pay,  after  a  fashion.  One  producer  might 
get  much  and  another  little,  but  every  one  would 
get  something.  The  secret  of  getting  most  evi 
dently  lay  in  producing  the  thing  most  required. 

I  remembered,  too,  that  Mildred  Averill  had 
defined  the  producer  as  he  seemed  to  her:  "I 
suppose  I  mean  all  who  contribute,  either  di 
rectly  or  indirectly,  either  mentally  or  physi 
cally,  to  the  sum  total  of  our  needs  in  living." 

There  again,  the  more  vital  the  need,  the 
greater  the  contribution,  and  needs  when  you 
analyzed  them  were  mostly  elementary.  The 
more  elemental  you  were,  the  closer  you  lived 
to  the  stratum  the  world  couldn't  do  without. 
That  stratum  was  basic;  it  was  bedrock.  Wher 
ever  you  went  you  had  to  walk  on  it,  and  not  on 
mountain-peaks  or  in  the  air. 

137 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  was  not  pleased  with  these  deductions.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  gross  thing  in  life  that  salesmen 
and  chauffeurs  should  be  more  in  demand  than 
men  who  could  tell  you  at  a  glance  the  difference 
between  a  Henri  Deux  and  a  Jacobean  piece  of 
furniture,  or  explain  the  weaves  and  designs  of 
a  Flemish  tapestry  as  distinguished  from  a  Gobe 
lin  or  an  Aubusson.  I  was  eager  to  prove  my 
qualifications  for  a  place  in  life  to  be  not  without 
value.  To  have  nothing  to  do  was  bad  enough, 
but  to  be  unfit  to  do  anything  was  to  be  in  a  state 
of  imbecility. 

So  I  made  several  attempts,  of  which  one  will 
serve  as  an  instance  of  all. 

Walking  in  Fifth  Avenue  and  attracted  by  the 
shop  windows,  I  couldn't  help  being  struck  by 
New  York's  love  of  the  antique.  To  me  the 
antique  was  familiar.  Boyd  Averill  had  asked 
me  if  I  hadn't  sold  it.  I  had  said  I  hadn't — 
but  why  not?  Beauty  surely  entered  into  the 
sum  total  of  needs  in  living,  and  I  had,  moreover, 
often  named  it  to  myself  as  the  thread  of  flame 
by  which  I  should  find  my  way. 

All  the  same,  it  required  some  effort  to  walk 
into  any  of  these  storehouses  of  the  loot  of  castles 
and  cathedrals  and  offer  my  services  as  judge  and 
connoisseur.  On  the  threshold  of  three  I  lost 
my  courage  and  stepped  back.  It  was  only  after 
stopping  before  a  fourth,  the  window  severely 
simple  with  three  ineffable  moon-white  jars  set 
against  a  background  of  violet  shot  with  black, 
that  I  reasoned  myself  into  taking  the  step.  It 

138 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

was  a  case  of  de  Vaudace,  de  I'audace,  et  encore  de 
I'audace.  By  audacity  alone  were  high  things 
accomplished  and  great  fortunes  won.  Before 
I  could  recoil  from  this  commendable  reflection 
I  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

I  found  myself  in  a  gallery  resembling  certain 
venerable  sacristies.  The  floor  was  carpeted  in 
red,  the  walls  lined  with  cabinets  paneled  in 
ebony,  their  doors  discreetly  closed  on  the  treas 
ures  inside.  In  a  corner  an  easel  supported  a 
black-framed  flower-piece,  probably  by  Huys- 
mans.  On  a  well-preserved  Elizabethan  table 
partly  covered  with  a  square  of  filet  lace  was  a 
tea-service  of  Nantgarw  or  Rockingham.  Noth 
ing  could  have  been  more  in  accordance  with  my 
own  ideas  of  conducting  a  business  than  this 
absence  of  crude  display. 

I  had  leisure  to  make  these  observations,  be 
cause  the  only  other  visible  occupant  of  the  shop, 
if  I  may  use  the  word  of  a  shrine  so  dignified, 
was  a  young  lady  who  moved  slowly  toward  me 
down  the  gallery.  She  was  in  the  neatest  black, 
with  only  a  string  of  pearls  for  ornament. 
Healthily  pale,  with  fair  hair  carefully  "mar 
celled,"  her  hands  resting  on  each  other  in  front 
of  her,  she  approached  me  with  a  faint  smile  that 
emphasized  her  composure. 

"You  wish—?" 

I  had  not  considered  the  words  in  which  I 
should  frame  my  application,  so  I  stammered: 

"  I — I  thought  I — I  might  be  of — of  some  use 
here." 

139 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

The  faint  smile  faded,  but  the  composure  re 
mained  as  before. 

"Some— what?" 

"Use.  I — I  understand  these  things.  That 
tea-service,  now,  it's  Rockingham  or  Nantgarw, 
possibly  Chelsea.  The  three  moon-white  jars 
in  the  window,  two  of  them  gourd-shaped — " 

"Did  you  want  to  look  at  them?" 

"No,"  I  blurted  out,  "to— to  sell  them." 

"Sell  them?  How  do  you  mean?  We  mean 
to  sell  them  ourselves." 

"But  don't  you  ever — ever  need — what  shall 
I  call  it — an  extra  hand?  Don't  you  ever  have 
a  place  for  that?" 

She  grew  nervous,  and  yet  not  so  nervous  as 
to  lose  the  power  of  keeping  me  in  play. 

"Oh  yes!  Certainly!  An — an  extra  hand! 
I'll  call  Mr.  Chessland.  Mr.  Chessland !  Please 
— please — come  here.  Lovely  day,  isn't  it?" 
she  continued,  as  a  short,  thick-set  figure  came 
waddling  from  the  back  of  the  premises.  "We 
don't  often  have  such  lovely  weather  at  this  time 
of  year,  though  sometimes  we  do — we  do  very 
often,  don't  we?  You  never  can  tell  about 
weather,  can  you?" 

Mr.  Chessland,  who  was  more  Armenian  than 
his  name,  having  come  near  enough  to  keep  an 
eye  on  me,  she  fell  back  toward  him,  whispering 
something  to  which  he  replied  only  in  panto 
mime.  Only  in  pantomime  he  replied  to  me, 
pursing  his  rosy,  thick  lips,  and  lifting  his  hands, 
palms  outward,  as  in  some  form  of  Oriental  sup- 

140 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

plication,  pushing  me  with  repeated  gestures 
back  toward  the  door.  I  went  back  toward 
the  door  in  obedience  to  the  frightened  little  fat 
man's  urge,  since  I  was  as  terrified  as  he.  Though 
I  was  out  on  the  pavement  again  the  door  didn't 
close  till  I  heard  the  girl  ask,  in  an  outburst  of 
relief: 

"Do  you  think  he  was  nervy,  or  only  off  his 
nut?" 

It  came  to  me  slowly  that  a  man  in  search  of 
work  is  somehow  the  object  of  suspicion.  The 
whole  world  being  so  highly  mechanized,  it  ad 
mits  of  no  loose  screw.  The  loose  screw  ob 
viously  hasn't  fitted;  and  if  it  hasn't  fitted  in 
the  place  for  which  it  was  made  it  is  unlikely  to 
fit  in  another. 

Furthermore,  a  man  is  so  impressionable  that 
he  quickly  adopts  of  himself  the  view  that  others 
take  of  him.  Going  about  from  shop  to  shop, 
bringing  my  simple  guile  to  bear  first  on  one 
smooth-spoken  individual  and  then  another, 
oitly  in  the  end,  in  the  phrase  once  used  to  me, 
"to  get  the  gate,"  I  shrank  in  my  own  estimation. 
The  gate  seemed  all  I  was  fit  for.  I  began  to  see 
myself  as  going  out  through  an  endless  succession 
of  gates,  expelled  by  hands  like  Mr.  Chessland's, 
but  never  welcomed  within  one.  For  a  man 
who  had  instinctively  the  habit  of  rating  him 
self  with  the  best,  of  picking  and  choosing  his 
own  company,  of  ignoring  those  who  didn't  suit 
him  as  if  they  had  never  existed,  the  revolution 
of  feeling  was  curious. 

14.1 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Then  I  discovered  that  one  point  of  contact 
with  organized  society  had  been  also  removed. 

Early  in  December  I  went  to  look  up  Drink- 
water,  whom  I  hadn't  seen  for  a  month.  It 
was  not  friendliness  that  sent  me;  it  was  loneli 
ness.  Day  after  day  had  gone  by,  and  except 
for  the  people  to  whom  I  applied  for  work  I 
hadn't  spoken  to  any  one. 

True,  I  had  been  busy.  In  addition  to  look 
ing  for  a  job  I  had  written  articles  for  the  press 
and  had  made  strenuous  efforts  to  secure  a  place 
as  French  teacher  in  a  boys'  school.  This  I 
think  I  should  have  got  had  I  been  actually 
French;  but  when  the  decision  was  made  a  native 
Frenchman  had  turned  up  and  been  given  the 
preference.  As  for  my  articles,  some  of  them 
were  sent  back  to  me,  and  of  the  rest  I  never 
heard.  So  I  had  been  less  lonely  than  I  might 
have  been,  even  if  my  occupations  had  brought 
me  no  success. 

In  addition  to  that  I  had  refrained  from  visit 
ing  the  blind  boy  from  a  double  motive:  there 
was  first  the  motive  that  was  always  present, 
that  of  not  wishing  to  continue  the  acquaintance 
of  people  outside  my  class  in  life;  then  there 
was  the  reason  that  I  was  anxious  now  to  avoid 
a  possible  chance  meeting  with  Miss  Averill. 

I  could  easily  have  been  in  love  with  her. 
There  was  no  longer  a  question  about  that.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  I  was  appallingly 
adrift — and  she  had  been  kind  to  me.  I  had  been 
grotesque,  suspected,  despised — and  she  had  been 

142 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

kind  to  me.  She  had  gone  out  of  her  way  to 
be  kind  to  me;  she  had  been  sisterly;  she  had 
been  tender.  Something  that  was  of  value  in 
me  which  no  one  else  had  seen,  she  had  seen 
and  done  justice  to.  In  circumstances  that  made 
me  a  mystery  to  every  one,  myself  included,  she 
had  had  the  courage  to  believe  me  a  gentleman 
and  to  put  me  on  a  level  with  herself.  As  the 
days  went  by,  and  this  recognition  remained 
the  sole  mitigation  of  a  lot  that  had  grown  in 
finitely  bitterer  than  I  ever  supposed  it  could 
become,  I  felt  that  if  I  didn't  love  her  I  adored 
her. 

For  this  reason  I  had  to  avoid  her;  I  had  to 
take  pains  that  she  should  not  see  me.  Even  if 
other  circumstances  had  not  made  friendship 
between  us  hopeless,  my  impending  social  col 
lapse  must  have  had  that  effect.  No  good  could 
ensue  from  our  meeting  again;  and  so  I  kept 
away  from  places  where  a  meeting  could  occur. 

But  an  afternoon  came  when  some  sort  of 
human  intercourse  became  necessary  to  keep 
me  from  despair.  It  was  the  day  when  I  lost 
my  chance  at  the  boys'  school.  It  was  also  a  day 
when  three  of  my  articles  had  fluttered  back  to 
me.  It  was  also  a  day  when  I  had  made  two 
gentlemanly  appeals  for  employment,  losing  one 
because  I  couldn't  write  shorthand,  and  the 
other  because  the  man  in  need  of  a  secretary 
didn't  want  a  high-brow. 

Drinkwater  was,  then,  a  last  resort.  He  would 
welcome  me;  he  would  tell  me  of  his  good  luck;  he 

143 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

would  call  me  Jasper;  he  would  make  a  fuss  over 
me  that  would  have  the  warmth  of  a  lighted  fire. 

But  at  the  door  I  was  met  by  Miss  Flower- 
dew's  little  colored  maid  with  the  information, 
given  with  darky  idioms  that  I  cannot  repro 
duce,  that  Mr.  Drinkwater  had  gone  to  take  his 
old  position  with  Doctor  Averill,  and  was  living 
in  his  house.  Miss  Blair  had  also  found  a  job, 
though  the  little  maid  couldn't  tell  me  where. 
Miss  Flowerdew  knew,  but,  unfortunately,  she 
was  spending  a  week  in  Philadelphia,  "where 
her  folks  was." 

It  was  a  shock,  but  a  shock  with  a  thrill  in  it. 
If  Drinkwater  had  gone  to  Boyd  Averill's,  to 
Boyd  Averill's  I  ought  to  follow  him.  That 
which  I  had  denied  myself  for  one  reason  might, 
therefore,  become  unavoidable  for  another.  I 
forgot  that  I  had  been  planning  to  drop  Drink- 
water  from  the  list  of  my  acquaintances,  for 
Drinkwater  in  Boyd  Averill's  house  had  another 
value. 

He  stood  for  a  temptation.  It  was  like  wres 
tling  with  a  taste  for  drink  or  opium.  At  one 
minute  I  said  I  wouldn't  go;  at  another  I  ad 
mitted  that  I  couldn't  help  myself.  In  the  end 
I  went.  As  I  turned,  from  Fifth  Avenue  my 
heart  pounded  and  my  legs  shook.  I  knew  I  was 
doing  wrong.  I  said  I  would  do  it  just  this 
once,  and  never  any  more. 

But  I  sinned  in  vain.  The  house  was  empty, 
In  the  window  beside  the  door  hung  a  black-and- 
white  sign,  "To  Let." 

144 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  find  out 
where  the  Averills  had  moved  to,  but  I  didn't 
make  the  attempt.  It  was  best  for  me  to  lose 
sight  of  them;  it  was  best  for  them  to  lose  sight 
of  me.  Now  that  the  process  had  begun  I  de 
cided  to  carry  it  to  the  utmost. 

Nothing  is  simpler  than  being  lost  in  a  city 
like  New  York,  so  long  as  it  is  to  nobody's  inter 
est  to  find  you.  You  have  only  to  move  round 
a  corner,  and  it  is  as  if  you  had  gone  a  thousand 
miles.  The  minute  I  carried  my  bags  away  from 
the  Barcelona  without  leaving  an  address  I  was 
beyond  the  ken  of  any  one  inclined  to  follow  me. 

I  did  this  not  of  choice,  but  of  necessity.  In 
the  matter  of  choice  I  should  have  preferred  stay 
ing  where  I  was.  Though  it  was  a  modest,  un 
cleanly  place,  I  had  grown  used  to  it;  and  I 
dreaded  another  expedition  into  the  unknown. 
But  I  had  come  down  to  my  last  ten  dollars,  with 
no  relief  in  sight.  A  humbler  abode  was  impera 
tive  even  to  tide  me  over  a  few  days. 

On  the  Odyssey  of  that  afternoon  I  could 
write  a  good-sized  volume.  Steps  that  would 
have  been  simple  to  a  working-man  were  difficult 
10  145 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

to  me,  because  I  had  never  had  to  take  them. 
Moreover,  because  the  business  was  new  to  me 
I  went  at  it  in  the  least  practical  way.  Instead 
of  securing  a  bed  in  one  place  before  giving  it 
up  in  another,  I  followed  the  opposite  method. 
Paying  my  bill  at  the  Barcelona,  I  went  out  in 
the  street  with  no  definite  direction  before  me. 

Rather,  I  had  one  definite  direction,  but  that 
was  only  a  first  stage.  I  had  spotted  on  my 
walks  a  dealer  in  old  clothes  to  whom  I  carried 
the  ridiculous  suits  I  had  brought  with  me  from 
France.  He  was  a  little  old  Polish  Jew,  dressed 
in  queer,  antiquated  broadcloth,  whose  beard 
and  tousled  gray  hair  proclaimed  him  a  sort  of 
Nazarite. 

When  I  mentioned  my  errand  he  shook  his 
head  with  an  air  of  despair,  lifting  his  hands 
to  heaven  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Mr. 
Chessland. 

"No,  no!  Open  not,"  he  exclaimed,  as  I  laid 
the  suit-case  on  the  counter  in  order  to  display 
my  wares.  "Will  the  high-born  gentleman  but 
look  at  all  the  good  moneys  spent  on  these 
beautiful  garments,  and  no  one  buys  my  mer 
chandise?  Of  what  use  more  to  purchase?" 

When  I  had  opened  the  suit-case  he  cast  one 
look  at  the  contents,  turning  away  dramatically 
to  the  other  side  of  the  reeking  little  shop.  A 
backward  gesture  of  the  hand  cast  my  offerings 
behind  him. 

"Pah!  Those  can  I  not  sell.  Take  'em 
away."  He  came  back,  however,  fingering  first 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

one  suit  and  then  the  other,  appraising  them 
rapidly.  "One  dollar!"  he  cried,  lifting  a  bony 
forefinger  and  defying  me  to  ask  more.  "One! 
One!  One!  No  more  but  one!" 

I  raised  him  to  two,  to  three,  and  finally  to 
five  for  each  suit.  In  spite  of  his  tragic  appeals 
to  Ruin  not  to  overtake  him,  he  seized  my  hand 
and  kissed  it. 

Thus  I  was  out  on  the  pavement,  with  twenty 
dollars  in  my  pocket,  and  so  much  liberty  of 
action  that  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  It  was 
about  three  in  the  afternoon  of  a  sullen  Decem 
ber  day,  and  big  flakes  of  snow  had  begun  to  fall 
softly.  It  was  cold  only  in  the  sense  that  my 
suit  had  been  bought  for  hot  weather,  and  the 
light  French  box-coat,  which  was  all  I  had  be 
sides,  added  little  in  the  way  of  warmth.  Un 
able  to  stand  with  my  two  bags  in  the  doorway 
of  a  shop  for  second-hand  clothes,  I  moved  on 
more  or  less  at  random. 

But  one  thought  was  clearly  in  my  mind. 
I  must  find  a  house  where  the  sign  "Rooms"  was 
displayed  in  a  window,  and  there  I  must  go  in. 

For  the  first  half-hour  I  kept  this  purpose  in 
view,  walking  slowly  and  turning  my  head  now 
to  one  side  of  the  street,  now  to  the  other,  so  as 
to  miss  no  promising  haven.  A  room  being 
all  I  needed,  any  room  within  my  price  would  do. 
Having  no  experience,  I  could  have  no  choice.  If 
I  had  choice,  it  would  have  been  for  Miss  Flower- 
dew's;  but  that  would  have  brought  me  back  into 
the  circle  from  which  I  was  trying  to  slip  out. 

147 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Miss  Flowerdew's  setting  my  only  standard 
as  to  "Rooms,"  I  had  imagined  myself  as  walk 
ing  into  something  of  the  kind,  though  possibly 
more  cheerful.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 
that  in  this  I  was  disappointed.  Drifting  in  and 
out  of  houses  through  most  of  that  afternoon, 
I  saw  women  and  conditions  that  almost  shat 
tered  such  faith  as  I  had  left  in  human  nature. 
The  first  to  answer  my  ring  at  a  doorbell  was  a 
virago.  An  enormous  creature,  bigger  if  not 
taller  than  myself,  and  clad  in  a  loose  pink-flannel 
wrapper  that  added  to  her  bulk,  she  challenged 
me  to  find  a  fault  with  the  room  I  declined  after 
having  seen  it.  "Better  men  than  you  have 
slept  in  that  bed,"  she  called  after  me  as  I  clat 
tered  down  the  stairs,  "and  any  one  who  says 
different  '11  lie."  The  next  was  a  poor,  leering 
thing  who  smiled  in  a  way  that  would  have  been 
horrible  if  it  had  not  been  so  sickeningly  imbecile. 
The  next  was  a  slattern,  pawing  her  face  and  wip 
ing  it  with  her  apron  while  she  showed  me  the 
doghole  for  which  I  was  to  pay  seven  dollars  a 
week.  There  were  others  of  whom  it  is  useless 
to  attempt  a  catalogue  further  than  to  say  that 
they  left  me  appalled.  When  the  lights  were 
being  lit  I  was  still  in  the  streets  with  my  two 
bags,  and  the  snow  falling  faster. 

I  was  about  to  go  back  to  the  Barcelona  for  the 
night  when  something  happened  which  I  tell  to 
you  just  as  it  occurred. 

That  morning  I  had  read  in  a  paper  the  ac 
count  given  by  a  young  Canadian  officer  of  his 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

escape  from  a  German  prison,  of  his  beating  his 
way  to  the  Rhine,  and  of  his  final  swim  across 
the  river  to  Switzerland.  But  the  point  that 
remained  in  my  memory  was  his  picture  of  him 
self  as  he  lay  like  a  lizard  with  his  nose  to  the 
stream  and  his  feet  in  the  underbrush  as  the  bank 
rose  behind  him.  Listening  to  the  current,  he 
could  guess  how  strong  it  was;  putting  his  hand 
in  the  water,  he  could  feel  it  cold.  For  over  two 
hours  he  lay  there  in  the  darkness,  resting,  won 
dering,  and  thinking  of  a  little  cemetery  not  far 
from  Basel  where  lay  the  bodies  of  the  prisoners 
who  had  tried  to  make  this  swim. 

Then,  as  the  minute  approached  at  which  he 
must  give  himself  to  these  difficult  waters,  he 
prayed.  His  account  of  the  act  was  simple  and 
straightforward.  He  asked  God  to  have  him 
in  His  keeping  while  he  made  this  attempt,  and 
to  comfort  those  at  home  if  he  failed.  With 
that  he  slipped  into  the  stream  and  struck  out 
ward. 

Well,  standing  somewhere  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Eighth  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue  I  turned 
this  over  in  my  mind,  considering  its  advisability. 
I  was  not  what  would  be  called  a  praying  man. 
As  to  that,  I  had  not  prayed  in  years.  I  had 
sometimes  told  myself  that  I  didn't  know  what 
prayer  was,  that  its  appeal  seemed  to  me  illogi 
cal.  Illogical  it  seemed  to  me  now,  in  the  sense 
of  imploring  God  to  do  what  He  wouldn't  do  of 
His  own  accord. 

So,  although  I  didn't  pray,  something  passed 
149 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

through  my  mind  that  might  have  been  prayer's 
equivalent.  As  far  as  I  can  transcribe  it  into 
the  words  which  I  did  not  use  at  the  time  it  ran 
like  this: 

"I  know  there  is  a  God.  I  know  that  His  will 
is  the  supreme  law  for  all  of  us.  I  know  that 
that  law  is  just  and  beneficent.  It  is  not  just 
and  beneficent  for  me  to  be  standing  here  in  the 
snow  and  the  slush,  chilled,  hungry,  with  wet 
feet,  workless,  and  homeless.  Consequently, 
this  is  not  His  will.  Consequently,  I  must  give 
myself  to  discovering  that  will  as  the  first  prin 
ciple  of  safety.  When  I  have  got  into  touch  with 
that  first  principle  of  safety  I  shall  find  a  home 
and  work." 

Of  this  the  immediate  result  was  that  I  did  not 
return  to  the  Barcelona.  Something  like  a  voice, 
the  voice  of  another,  told  me  that  the  thread  of 
flame  led  onward.  Onward  I  drifted,  then, 
hardly  noticing  the  way  I  went,  hypnotized  by 
the  physical  process  of  being  on  the  move-  It 
was  just  on  and  on,  through  the  slanting  snow 
fall,  through  the  patches  of  blurred  light,  with 
feet  soggy  and  heart  soggier,  a  derelict  amid 
these  hundreds  of  vehicles,  these  thousands  of 
pedestrians,  all  bound  from  somewhere  to  some 
where,  and  knowing  the  road  they  were  taking. 
I  didn't  know  the  road  I  was  taking  and  in  a 
sense  I  didn't  care.  Having  given  up  from  sheer 
impotence  the  attempt  to  steer  my  ship,  I  was 
being  borne  along  blindly. 

When  I  lifted  my  head  to  look  about  me  again 
150 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  was  in  a  part  of  New  York  not  only  new  to  mey 
but  almost  refreshing  to  the  eye.  I  mean  that  it 
was  one  of  those  old-fashioned  down-town  regions 
where  the  streets  hadn't  yet  learned  the  short  and 
easy  cut  to  beauty  of  running  only  at  right  angles. 
Two  or  three  thoroughfares  focused  in  an  ir 
regular  open  space,  which  I  saw  by  the  signboard 
to  bear  the  name  of  Meeting-House  Green. 
There  was  no  meeting-house  in  the  neighbor 
hood  now,  and  probably  nothing  green  even  in 
spring.  If  it  was  like  the  rest  of  New  York  it 
would  be  dirty  in  winter  and  fetid  in  summer, 
but  after  the  monotonous  ground  plan  of  the  up 
town  regions  its  quaintness  relieved  the  per 
ceptions  to  a  degree  which  the  thunder  of  the 
near-by  Elevated  couldn't  do  away  with.  Just 
now  all  was  blanketed  in  white,  through  which 
drays  plunged  heavily  and  pedestrians  slipped 
like  ghosts. 

As  I  stared  about  me  my  eye  was  once  more 
arrested  by  the  magic  notice  "Rooms,"  though 
this  time  with  the  qualifying  phrase,  "for  gentle 
men."  Rooms  for  gentlemen!  The  limita 
tion  seemed  to  fit  my  needs.  It  implied  selection 
and  a  social  standard. 

The  house,  too,  was  that  oasis  in  New  York, 
an  old-time  dwelling  in  gray-painted  brick  which 
progress  has  not  yet  swept  away.  Standing 
where  Wapping  Street  and  Theodora  Place  ran 
together  at  a  sharp  angle,  it  was  shaped  like  a 
sadiron  or  a  ship's  prow.  The  tip  of  the  ground 
floor  was  given  over  to  a  provision  dealer,  while 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

a  barber  occupied  the  long  slit  in  the  rear.  Be 
tween  the  two  shops  a  door  on  the  level  of  the 
pavement  of  Theodora  Place  gave  on  a  little  inset 
flight  of  steps  which  led  up  to  the  actual  entrance. 
The  vestibule  was  shabby,  but,  moved  by  my  ex 
perience  in  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon,  I  ob 
served  that  it  was  clean. 

The  woman  who  answered  my  ring  was  not 
only  clean,  but  neatly  dressed  in  what  I  sup 
pose  was  a  print  stuff,  and  not  only  neatly  dressed, 
but  marked  with  a  faded  prettiness.  What  I 
chiefly  noticed  for  the  minute  was  a  pair  of  those 
enormous  doll-blue  eyes  on  a  level  with  the  face, 
as  the  French  say,  a  fluer  de  tite,  which  make 
the  expression  sweet  and  vacuous.  In  her  case 
it  was  resignedly  mournful,  as  if  mournfulness 
was  a  part  of  her  aim  in  life.  A  single  gas-jet 
flickered  behind  her,  showing  part  of  a  hallway 
in  which  the  same  walnut  furniture  must  have 
stood  for  so  many  years  that  it  was  now  groggy 
on  its  feet.  To  my  question  about  a  room  she 
replied  with  a  sweet,  sad,  "Won't  you  step  in?" 
which  was  tantamount  to  a  welcome. 

The  floor  of  the  hallway  was  covered  with  an 
oilcloth  or  linoleum  which  had  once  simulated 
a  terra-cotta  tiling,  and  was  now  but  one  re 
move  from  dust.  On  a  mud-brown  wall  a  steel- 
engraving  of  a  scow,  with  Age  at  the  helm,  and 
Youth  peering  off  at  the  bow,  sagged  at  an  angle 
which  produced  a  cubist  effect  in  its  relation  to 
the  groggy-footed  hat-rack.  The  doors  on  the 
left  of  the  hall  were  closed;  on  the  right  a  grace- 

152 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

ful  stairway,  lighted  by  a  tall  window  looking 
out  on  Theodora  Place,  curved  upward  to  the 
floor  above. 

At  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall  one  of  the 
closed  doors  opened,  and  a  second  woman,  a 
replica  of  the  first,  except  for  being  older,  came 
out  and  looked  inquiringly.  She,  too,  was  fadedly 
pretty;  she,  too,  was  mournful;  she,  too,  was 
saucer-eyed;  she,  too,  was  neatly  dressed  in  a 
print  stuff. 

"This  gentleman  is  looking  for  a  room,"  was 
the  explanation,  sadly  given,  of  my  presence. 

The  ladies  withdrew  to  the  foot  of  the  stair 
way  for  a  whispered  conference.  This  finished,  the 
elder  came  back  to  where  I  stood  on  the  door-mat. 

"We  generally  ask  for  references — "  she  began, 
with  a  glance  at  my  sodden  appearance. 

"If  that's  essential,"  I  broke  in,  "I'm  afraid 
it  must  end  matters.  IVe  only  recently  come 
over  from  France,  and  I'm  a  total  stranger  in 
New  York.  I  rang  the  bell  because  I  saw  the 
notice  and  I  liked  the  look  of  the  house." 

As  it  happened,  the  last  was  the  most  tactful 
thing  I  could  have  said,  going  to  the  hearts  of 
my  hostesses.  Something,  too,  in  my  voice  and 
choice  of  words  must  have  appealed  to  their 
sense  of  gentility. 

"It's  a  nice  old  house,"  the  elder  lady  smiled, 
with  her  brave  air  of  having  to  overcome  agony 
before  being  able  to  speak  at  all.  "It's  old- 
fashioned,  of  course,  and  horribly  in  the  wrong 
part  of  the  city  nowadays;  but  my  sister  and  I 

153 


THE  THREAD  OF   FLAME 

love  it.  We've  always  lived  here,  and  our  dear 
father  before  us.  He  was  Doctor  Smith,  quite 
a  famous  oculist  in  his  day;  you  may  have  heard 
of  him?" 

"I've  heard  the  name,"  I  admitted,  politely. 

"We've  two  good  rooms  vacant  at  present; 
but  if  you  can't  give  references" — a  wan  smile 
deprecated  the  unladylike  suggestion — "I'm 
afraid  we  should  have  to  ask  you  for  a  week's 
rent  in  advance.  I  shouldn't  speak  of  it  if  it 
was  not  our  rule." 

When  I  had  agreed  to  this  she  led  the  way 
over  the  frayed  cocoanut  matting  of  the  stair 
case  to  an  upper  hallway,  also  carpeted  in  pul 
verized  oilcloth.  With  one  sister  ahead  of  me, 
and  the  other  shepherding  me  behind,  I  was  ush 
ered  into  a  large  prow-shaped  room  immediately 
over  the  provision  dealer,  and  smelling  faintly 
of  raw  meat.  I  could  have  borne  the  odor  if 
the  rent  had  not  been  six  a  week. 

"We've  another  room  just  over  this,"  the 
spokeswoman  informed  me,  "but  it's  only  half 
this  size." 

"If  it's  only  half  this  rent—" 

"It's  just  half  this  rent." 

So,  marshaled  as  before^  I  mounted  another 
stairway  in  cocoanut  matting  to  a  slit  of  a  room 
shaped  like  half  a  ship's  prow,  with  its  single 
window  placed  squintwise.  As  the  smell  of  raw 
meat  was  less  noticeable  here,  the  squint  of  the 
window  out  into  Meeting-House  Green,  and  the 
rent  so  low,  I  made  my  bargain  promptly. 

154 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

In  the  days  of  the  famous  oculist  the  room 
must  have  been  a  maid's.  It  was  still  furnished 
like  a  maid's  in  a  house  of  the  second  order.  A 
rickety  iron  bedstead  supported  a  sagging  mat 
tress  covered  with  a  cotton  counterpane  in  im 
itated  crochet-work.  A  table,  a  washstand,  a 
chair,  and  a  chest  of  drawers  were  perhaps 
drearier  than  they  might  have  been,  because  of 
the  sick  light  of  the  gas-jet.  On  a  drab  wooden 
mantelpiece,  which  enshrined  a  board  covered 
with  a  piece  of  cretonne  where  once  had  been  a 
fireplace,  stood  the  only  decoration  in  the  room, 
three  large  fungi,  painted  with  landscapes.  The 
fungi  were  of  the  triangular  sort  which  grow 
about  the  trunks  of  trees.  There  was  a  big  one 
in  the  middle  of  the  mantelpiece,  and  smaller 
ones  at  each  end,  giving- glimpses  of  rivers  and 
bays,  with  castles  on  headlands,  to  one  tired  of 
the  prospect  of  Meeting-House  Green.  Taking 
the  initiatory  three  dollars  from  my  purse,  I 
bent  to  study  these  objects  of  art. 

Once  more  the  act  was  ingratiating  to  my 
hostesses. 

"That's  my  work,"  said  the  little  woman  who 
had  admitted  me  to  the  house.  Her  tone  was 
one  of  shy  pride,  of  a  kind  of  fluttered  boastful- 


ness. 

a 


My  sister's  an  artist,"  the  elder  explained, 
taking  my  three  one-dollar  bills  as  if  their  number 
didn't  matter,  but  making  conversation  in  order 
to  count  them  surreptitiously.  "She's  a  widow, 
too,  Mrs.  Leeming.  I'm  Miss  Smith.  We've 

155 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

had  great  sorrows.  We  try  not  to  complain  too 
much,  but — •" 

A  long-drawn  sigh  with  a  quiver  in  it  said  the 
rest,  while  Mrs.  Leeming's  eyes  spilled  tears 
with  the  readiness  of  a  pair  of  fountain  cups. 

To  escape  the  emotional  I  returned  to  my  in 
spection  of  the  landscapes,  at  which  I  was  des 
tined  to  gaze  for  another  two  years. 

"Are  these  studies  of — of  Italy?"  I  asked,  for 
the  sake  of  showing  appreciation. 

Mrs.  Leeming  recovered  herself  sufficiently 
to  be  faintly  indignant. 

"Oh  no!  I  never  copy.  I  work  only  from 
imagination.  Landscapes  just  come  to  me — • 
and  all  different." 

Before  they  left  me  Miss  Smith  managed  to 
convey  a  few  of  the  principles  on  which  they  con 
ducted  their  house. 

"We've  three  very  refined  gentlemen  at  pres 
ent,  two  salesmen  and  a  Turkish-bath  attendant. 
One  has  to  be  so  careful.  We  almost  never  take 
gentlemen  who  don't  bring  reference;  but  in 
your  case,  Mr.  Soames — well,  one  can  see."  Her 
wan,  suffering  smile  flickered  up  for  a  minute 
and  died  down.  "There's  a  sort  of  free-masonry, 
isn't  there?  We  have  taken  gentlemen  on  that, 
and  they've  never  disappointed  us." 

I  hoped  I  should  not  disappoint  them,  either. 

"Now,  some  young  men — well,  to  put  it 
plainly,  if  there's  liquor  we  just  have  to  ask  them 
to  look  for  another  room.  Tobacco,  with  gentle 
men,  one  can't  be  too  severe  on.  We  overlook 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

it,  and  try  not  to  complain  too  much.  And, 
of  course,  only  gentlemen  visitors — " 

With  my  assurance  that  I  should  do  my  ut 
most  to  live  within  their  regulations,  they  were 
good  enough  to  leave  me  to  my  single  chair  and 
the  fungi.  Dropping  into  the  one  and  staring 
at  the  other,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  reached 
the  uttermost  edge  of  the  forlorn.  I  could  bear 
the  extreme  modesty  of  this  lodging,  seeing  that 
it  gave  me  a  shelter  from  the  storm;  I  could  bear 
being  hungry,  cold,  and  wet;  I  could  bear  the 
wall  of  darkness  and  blankness  that  hemmed  in 
not  only  my  future,  but  my  past;  what  I  found 
intolerable  was  the  sense  of  being  useless.  The 
blows  of  Fate  I  could  take  with  some  equanimity, 
but,  not  to  be  able  to  "make  good"  or  to  earn  a 
living  cut  me  to  the  quick  in  my  self-esteem. 

And  yet  it  was  not  that  which  in  the  end  beat 
me  to  my  knees  beside  the  bed,  to  bury  my  head 
against  the  counterpane  of  imitation  crochet- 
work.  That  was  a  more  primal  craving,  a  need 
as  primal  as  thirst  or  the  desire  for  sleep.  It 
was  the  longing  for  some  sort  of  human  com 
panionship — for  the  gay  toleration  of  Lydia 
Blair,  or  Drinkwater's  cheerfulness,  or  Mildred 
Averill's. 


CHAPTER  III 

BUT  in  the  end  I  found  work,  so  why  tell  of 
the  paroxysm  of  loneliness  which  shook  me 
that  night  like  a  madness?  Never  before  had 
I  known  anything  like  it,  and  nothing  like  it  has 
seized  me  since.  I  must  have  remained  on  my 
knees  for  an  hour  or  more,  largely  for  the  reason 
that  there  was  nothing  to  get  up  for.  Though  I 
had  had  no  dinner,  I  didn't  want  to  eat,  and  what 
else  was  there  to  do  ?  To  eat  and  sleep,  to  sleep 
and  eat,  that  apparently  would  be  my  fate  till 
my  seventeen  dollars  gave  out.  If  the  miracle 
didn't  happen  before  then — but  the  miracle  be 
gan  to  happen  not  long  after  that,  and  this  is 
how  it  came  to  pass: 

I  got  up  and  crept  supperless  to  bed.  There 
I  slept  with  the  merciful  soundness  of  fatigue, 
wakened  by  the  crashing  past  my  window  of 
an  Elevated  train  to  a  keen  sunny  morning, 
with  snow  on  the  ground  and  the  zest  of  new  life. 

As  I  washed,  I  could  hear  my  neighbor  washing 
on  the  other  side  of  the  partition.  The  partition 
was,  in  fact,  so  thin  that  I  had  heard  all  his  move 
ments  since  he  got  out  of  bed.  The  making  of 
one  man's  toilet  taking  about  the  same  amount 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

of  time  as  that  of  another  man  in  similar  con 
ditions,  we  met  at  the  doors  of  our  respective 
rooms  as  we  emerged  to  go  down-stairs. 

I  looked  at  him;  he  looked  at  me.  With 
what  he  saw  I  am  concerned;  I  saw  a  stocky, 
broad-shouldered  individual,  with  smooth  black 
hair,  solemn  black  eyes,  bushy  black  eyebrows, 
a  clean-shaven  skin  so  dark  that  shaving  could 
not  obliterate  the  trace  of  hair,  and  a  general 
air  of  friendliness.  Putting  on  the  good-mixer 
voice,  which  was  not  natural  to  me  but  which 
I  could  assume  for  a  brief  spurt,  I  said: 

"Say,  I  wonder  it  you  could  advise  a  fellow 
where  to  get  a  breakfast?  Only  breezed  in  last 
night—" 

Between  working-people  there  is  always  that 
camaraderie  I  had  already  noticed  in  Drinkwater 
and  Lydia  Blair,  and  which  springs  from  the 
knowledge  that  where  there  is  nothing  to  lose 
there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  While  I  cannot 
say  that  my  companion  viewed  me  with  the  spon 
taneous  recognition  he  would  have  accorded  to 
a  man  of  his  own  class,  he  saw  enough  to  warrant 
him  in  giving  me  his  sympathy.  The  man  of 
superior  station  down  on  his  luck  is  not  granted 
the  full  rights  of  the  stratum  to  which  he  has 
descended;  but  even  when  an  object  of  suspicion 
he  is  not  one  of  hostility.  Between  moral  bad 
luck  and  sheer  fortuitous  calamity  the  line  is 
not  strictly  drawn;  and  wherever  there  is  need 
there  is  a  free  inclination  to  meet  it. 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  my  breakfast  now,"  my 
159 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

neighbor  said,  after  sizing  me  up  with  a  second 
glance.  "Why  don't  you  come  along?  It's  not 
much  of  a  place  to  look  at,"  he  continued,  as  I 
followed  him  down-stairs,  "but  the  grub  isn't  bad. 
Most  of  the  places  round  here  is  punk." 

Within  ten  minutes'  time  I  found  myself  in 
a  little  eating-place  that  must  once  have  been  the 
cellar  kitchen  of  a  dwelling-house,  sitting  at  a 
bare  deal  table,  opposite  a  man  I  had  never  seen 
till  that  morning. 

"Don't  take  bacon,"  he  advised,  when  I  had 
ordered  bacon  and  eggs;  "it  '11  be  punk.  Take 
ham.  Coffee  '11  be  punk,  too.  Better  stick  to 


tea." 


Having  given  me  these  counsels,  he  proceeded 
with  those  short  and  simple  annals  of  his  history 
which  I  had  already  found  to  be  the  usual  form 
of  self-introduction.  An  Englishman,  a  Cor- 
nishman,  he  had  been  twenty  years  in  America. 
He  was  married  and  had  a  family,  but  preferred 
to  live  in  New  York  while  he  maintained  his 
household  in  Chicago. 

"Married  life  is  punk,"  was  his  summing  up. 
"Got  the  best  little  wife  in  the  state  of  Illinois, 
and  three  fine  kids,  a  boy  and  two  girls — but  I 
couldn't  come  it." 

"Couldn't  come  what?" 

"Oh,  the  whole  bloomin'  business — toein'  the 
line  like,  bein'  home  at  night,  and  the  least  little 
smell  of  anythink  on  your  breath — " 

A  wave  of  his  fork  sketched  a  world  of  domes 
tic  embarrassment  from  which  he  had  freed  him- 

160 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

self  only  by  a  somber  insouciance.  A  somber 
insouciance  might  be  called  his  key-note.  Out 
wardly  serious,  ponderous,  hard-working,  and 
responsible,  he  was  actually  light-hearted  and 
inconsequent.  During  the  progress  of  the  meal 
he  recited  the  escapades  of  a  Don  Juan  with  the 
gravity  of  a  Bunyan. 

Still  with  my  good-mixer  air  I  asked: 

"How  does  a  guy  like  me  get  a  job  in  New 
York?" 

"  Ever  work  in  a  Turkish  bath  ?"  He  answered 
this  question  before  I  could  do  it  myself.  "Sure 
you  didn't — not  a  chap  of  your  cut.  It  isn't 
a  bad  sort  of  thing  for  a" — he  hesitated,  but  de 
cided  to  use  the  epithet — "for  a — gentleman. 
Only  a  good  class  of  people  take  Turkish  baths. 
Hardly  ever  get  in  with  a  rough  lot.  A  few 
drunks,  but  what  of  that?  Could  have  got  you 
a  place  at  the  Gramercy  if  you'd  ha*  turned  up 
last  week;  but  a  Swede  has  it  now  and  it's  too 
late." 

By  the  end  of  breakfast,  however,  he  had  made 
a  suggestion. 

"Why  don't  you  try  the  Intelligence?  They'll 
often  get  you  a  berth  when  everything  else  has 
stumped  you." 

I  said  I  was  willing  to  try  the  Intelligence  if 
I  knew  what  it  was,  discovering  it  to  be  the  Bu 
reau  of  Domestic  and  Business  Intelligence  con 
ducted  by  Miss  Bryne.  You  presented  yourself, 
gave  your  name  and  address,  indicated  your 
choice  of  work,  told  your  qualifications  for  the 
11  161 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

job,  and  Miss  Bryne  did  the  rest,  taking  as  her 
commission  a  percentage  of  your  first  week's  pay. 

"But  I  don't  know  any  qualifications,"  I  de 
clared,  with  some  confusion. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  Say  clerical  work. 
That  covers  a  lot.  Somethink  '11  turn  up." 

"But  if  they  ask  me  if  I  can  do  certain 
things—?" 

"Say  you  can  do  'em.  That's  the  way  to  pull 
it  off".  Look  at  me.  Never  was  in  a  Turkish 
bath  in  my  life  till  I  went  to  an  employment- 
office  in  Chicago.  When  the  old  girl  in  charge 
asked  me  if  I  had  been,  I  said  I'd  been  born  in 
one.  Got  the  job  right  off",  and  watched  what 
the  other  guys  did  till  I'd  learned  the  trick. 
There's  always  some  nice  chap  that  '11  show  you 
the  ropes.  Gee!  The  worst  they  can  do  is  to 
bounce  you.  All  employers  is  punk.  Treat  'em 
like  punk  and  you'll  get  on." 

With  a  view  to  this  procedure  I  was  at  the 
Bureau  of  Domestic  and  Business  Intelligence 
by  half  past  nine,  entering,  unfortunately,  with 
the  downcast  air  of  the  employer  who  is  punk, 
instead  of  the  perky  self-assertion  which  I  soon 
began  to  notice  as  the  proper  attitude  of  those 
in  search  of  work.  Miss  Bryne's  establishment 
occupied  a  floor  in  one  of  the  older  office-build 
ings  a  little  to  the  south  of  Washington  Square. 
Having  ascended  in  the  lift,  you  found  yourself, 
just  inside  the  narrow  doorway,  face  to  face  with 
a  young  lady  seated  at  a  desk,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  ask  the  first  questions  and  take  the  first 

162 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

notes.  She  was  a  pretty  young  lady,  bright- 
eyed,  blond,  with  a  habit  of  cocking  her  head  in 
a  birdlike  way  as  she  composed  her  lips  to  a  re 
ceptive  smile. 

She  so  composed  them,  and  so  cocked  her 
head,  as  I  appeared  on  the  threshold,  awkward 
and  terrified. 

"Such  as—  ?" 

I  knew  what  she  meant  by  the  questioning 
look  and  the  encouraging  smile  of  the  bright 
eyes. 

"I'm — I'm  hoping  to  find  a  job,"  I  stammered 
to  her  obvious  astonishment. 

"Oh!"  It  was  a  surprised  little  crow.  "To 
find  one!" 

"Yes,  miss;   to  find  one." 

"Of— of  what   sort?" 

"Clerical  work,"   I   said,  boldly. 

She  bent  her  head  over  her  note-book.  "Your 
name?" 

"Jasper   Soames." 

"Age?" 

"Thirty-one." 

"Occupation?" 

"I've  told  you.  Any  kind  of  clerical  work. 
I  suppose  that  that  means  writing — and — and 
copying — and  that  sort  of  thing,  doesn't  it?" 

She  glanced  up  from  her  writing.  "Is  that 
what  you've  done?" 

I  nodded. 

"Where?     Have  you  any  references?" 

I  confessed  my  lack  of  references,  stating  that 
163 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  had  just  come  over  from  France,  where  I  had 
worked  with  a  firm  whose  name  would  not  carry 
weight  in  America. 

"What  did  they  do— the  firm?" 

I  answered,  wildly,  "Carpets." 

Another  young  lady  was  passing,  tall,  grace 
ful,  distinguished,  air  de  duchesse,  carrying  a  note 
book  and  pencil. 

"Miss  Gladfoot,"  my  interlocutrice  mur 
mured,  "won't  you  ask  Miss  Bryne  to  step  here?" 

Miss  Bryne  having  stepped  there,  I  found 
myself  face  to  face  with  a  competent  woman  of 
fifty  or  so,  short,  square,  square-faced,  and  astute. 
She  also  had  a  pencil  and  note-book  in  her  hand, 
and,  seeing  me,  looked  receptive,  too,  though  re 
maining  practical  and  business-like. 

While  the  young  lady  at  the  desk  explained 
me  as  far  as  she  had  been  able  to  understand  my 
object,  delicacy  urged  me  out  of  earshot.  I  had, 
therefore,  not  heard  what  passed  when  Miss 
Bryne  came  forward  to  take  charge  of  the  situ 
ation. 

"What  you  are  is  a  kind  of  educated  handy 
man.  Wouldn't  that  be  it?" 

Delighted  at  this  discriminating  view  of  my 
capacities,  I  faltered  that  it  would  be. 

"Well,  we  don't  often  have  a  call  for  your  kind 
of  specialty,  and  yet  we  do  have  them  some 
times.  There  might  be  one  to-day,  and  then 
again  there  mightn't  be  for  another  six  months. 
Now  you  can  either  go  in  and  wait  on  the  chance, 
or  you  can  leave  your  address  and  we'll  'phone 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

you  if  anything  should  turn  up  that  we  think 
would  suit." 

Encouraged  by  this  kindly  treatment  and  the 
possibility  of  a  call  that  day,  I  opted  for  going  in 
to  wait. 

"Then  come  this  way." 

Following  the  Napoleonic  figure  down  the  nar 
row  passageway,  I  was  shown  into  a  little  room, 
where  five  other  men  sat  with  the  dismayed, 
melancholy  faces  of  dogs  at  a  dog-show  at  min 
utes  when  they  are  not  barking.  Dismayed  and 
melancholy  on  my  side,  I  took  the  seat  nearest 
the  door,  feeling  like  a  prisoner  in  the  dock  or  the 
cell,  and  wondering  what  would  happen  next. 

Nothing  happened  next  so  far  as  I  was  con 
cerned,  but  I  had  a  gratifying  leisure  in  which 
to  look  about  me. 

I  was  obliged  to  note  at  once  that  the  Bureau 
of  Domestic  and  Business  Intelligence  was  chiefly 
of  Domestic.  Women  crowded  the  hall,  the  two 
large  rooms  across  the  way,  and  the  three  small 
ones  on  our  side,  except  the  coop  in  which  we  six 
men  were  segregated  from  the  gay  and  chatty 
throng.  Gay  and  chatty  were  the  words.  The 
tone  was  that  of  what  French  people  call  a  feeve 
o'clock.  Girls,  for  the  most  part  pretty  and  sty 
lishly  dressed,  sat  in  the  chairs,  perched  on  the 
arms  of  them,  grouped  themselves  in  corners,  in 
seeming  disregard  of  the  purpose  that  had  brought 
them  there.  Unable  at  first  to  differentiate  be 
tween  mistresses  and  maids,  I  soon  learned  to 
detect  the  former  by  their  careworn  faces,  shab- 

165 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

bier  clothes,  apologetic  arrival,  and  crestfallen 
departure.  Now  and  then  I  caught  a  few  broken 
phrases,  of  which  the  context  and  significance 
eluded  me. 

"I  told  her  that  before  I'd  be  after  washin'  all 
thim  dishes  I'd—" 

"Ah,  thin,  ye'll  not  shtay  long  in  that  plaace — " 
"Says  I,  'You've  got  a  crust,  Mrs.  Johnson,  to 
ask  me  to  shtay  in  when  it's  me  night — 
"With  that  I  ups  and  walks  away — " 
All   this    animation    and    repartee    contrasted 
oddly  with  the  low,  cowed  remarks  of  my  com 
panions  in  the  coop,  who  ventured  to  exchange 
observations  only  at  intervals. 

Where  was  your  last?  What  did  you  get? 
How  did  you  like  your  boss?  Did  you  leave  or 
was  you  fired?  Are  you  a  single  fella  or  a  mar 
ried  fella?  Did  you  have  long  hours?  Wouldn't 
he  give  you  your  raise?  Did  he  kick  against  the 
booze?  These  were  mere  starters  of  talk  that 
invariably  died  like  seedlings  in  a  wrong  climate. 
Getting  used  to  my  mates,  I  made  them  out  to  be 
a  gardener,  a  chauffeur,  a  teamster,  a  decayed 
English  butler,  and  a  negro  boy  who  called  him 
self  a  waiter.  Talking  about  their  bosses,  their 
tone  on  the  whole  was  hostile  without  personal 
malevolence.  That  is  to  say,  there  was  little 
or  no  enmity  to  individuals,  though  the  tendency 
to  curse  the  systems  of  civilized  life  was  general. 
I  think  they  would  have  agreed  with  my  Cornish 
friend  that  "all  employers  is  punk,"  and  consid 
ered  their  feelings  sufficiently  expressed  at  that. 

166 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

But  as  I  sat  among  them,  day  after  day,  I 
began,  oddly  enough,  to  orientate  my  vision  to 
their  point  of  view.  They  were,  of  course,  not 
always  the  same  men.  The  original  five  melted 
away  into  jobs  within  three  or  four  days;  but 
five  or  six  or  seven  was  about  the  daily  average 
in  our  little  pen.  They  came,  were  cowed,  were 
selected,  and  went  off.  Twice  during  the  first 
week  I  was  called  out  in  response  to  applicants 
for  unusual  grades  of  help,  but  my  manner  and 
speech  seemed  to  overawe  the  ladies  who  wanted 
to  hire,  and  I  was  remanded  to  my  cell.  "She 
said  she  didn't  want  that  kind  of  a  man."  "He 
wouldn't  want  to  eat  in  the  kitchen,"  were  the 
explanations  given  me  by  Miss  Bryne.  In  vain 
I  protested  that  I  would  eat  anywhere,  so  long 
as  I  ate.  The  other  servants  wouldn't  get  used 
to  me,  and  so  no  more  was  to  be  said. 

But  I  was  getting  used  to  the  other  servants. 
That  is  my  point.  Insensibly  I  was  changing  my 
whole  social  attitude.  It  was  like  the  difference 
in  looking  at  the  Grand  Canon  of  Arizona — 
downward  from  El  Tovar,  or  upward  from  the 
brink  of  the  Colorado.  Little  by  little  I  found 
myself  staring  upward  from  the  bottom,  through 
all  sorts  of  ranks  above  me.  I  didn't  notice  the 
change  at  once.  For  a  time  I  thought  I  still  re 
tained  my  sense  of  obscured  superiority.  I  ar 
rived  in  the  morning,  heard  from  the  lips  of  the 
birdlike  young  lady  at  the  desk  the  familiar 
"Nothing  yet,"  passed  on  to  the  pen,  nodded  to 
those  who  were  assembled,  some  of  whom  I  would 

167 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

have  seen  the  day  before,  listened  to  their  timid 
scraps  of  talk,  which  hardly  ever  varied  from  a 
few  worn  notes. 

At  first  I  felt  apart  from  them,  above  them, 
disdainful  of  their  limitations.  My  impulse  was 
to  get  away  from  them,  as  it  had  been  to  cut 
loose  from  Lydia  Blair  and  Drinkwater.  It 
was  only  on  seeing  them  one  by  one  called  out 
of  the  pen,  not  to  come  back. again,  that  I  began  to 
envy  them.  Sooner  or  later,  every  one  went  but 
me.  I  became  a  kind  of  friendly  joke  with  them. 
"Some  little  sticker,"  was  the  phrase  commonly 
applied  to  me.  It  was  used  in  a  double  sense, 
one  of  which  was  not  without  commendation. 
"Ye  carn't  stick  like  wot  you're  doin',  old  son/' 
a  footman  said  to  me  one  day,  "without  somethin' 
turnin'  up,  wot?"  and  from  this  I  took  a  grim 
sort  of  encouragement. 

But  all  I  mean  is  that  by  imperceptible  degrees 
I  felt  myself  one  of  them.  After  the  first  lady 
had  turned  me  down,  I  began  to  adapt  myself 
to  their  views  of  the  employer.  After  the  second 
lady  had  repeated  the  action  of  the  first,  I  began 
to  experience  that  feeling  of  dull  hostility  toward 
the  class  in  which  I  had  been  born  that  marked 
all  my  companions  in  the  coop.  It  was  what  I 
have  already  called  it,  hostility  without  personal 
malevolence — hostility  to  a  system  rather  than 
to  individuals.  For  a  pittance  barely  sufficient 
to  keep  body  and  soul  together,  leaving  no  mar 
gin  for  the  higher  or  more  beautiful  things  in  life, 
we  were  expected  to  drudge  like  Roman  slaves, 

168 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

and  not  only  feel  no  resentment,  but  be  con 
tented  with  the  lot  to  which  we  were  ordained. 
The  clearest  thing  in  the  world  to  all  of  us  was 
that  between  us  and  those  who  would  have  us 
work  for  them  some  great  humanizing  element 
was  lacking- — an  element  which  would  have  made 
life  acceptable — and  that  so  long  as  it  was  not 
there  each  one  of  us  would,  as  a  revolutionary 
bookkeeper  put  it,  "go  to  bed  with  a  grouch." 
To  me,  as  to  them,  the  grouch  was  growing  inti 
mate — and  so  was  hunger. 

By  the  end  of  a  fortnight  I  was  down  to  one 
meal  a  day,  the  breakfast  I  continued  to  take 
with  Pelly,  my  Cornish  friend,  and  over  which 
he  told  me  his  most  intimate  experiences,  with 
an  absence  of  reserve  to  which  conversation  in  the 
pen  had  accustomed  me.  Looking  for  some  such 
return  on  my  part,  he  was  not  only  disappointed, 
but  a  little  mystified.  I  got  his  mental  drift, 
however,  when  he  asked  me  on  one  occasion  if  I 
had  ever  "hit  the  pipe,"  and  on  another  if  I  had 
ever  been  "sent  away."  Had  these  misfortunes 
happened  to  himself  he  would  have  told  me 
frankly,  and  it  would  have  made  no  difference  in 
his  sympathy  for  me  had  I  confessed  to  them  or 
to  any  other  delinquency.  What  puzzled  him  was 
that  I  should  confess  to  nothing,  a  form  of  reserve 
which  to  him  was  not  only  novel,  but  abnormal. 

Nevertheless,  when  through  the  thin  partition 
I  announced  one  morning  that  I  wasn't  going 
to  breakfast,  giving  lack  of  appetite  as  a  plea, 
he  came  solemnly  into  my  room. 

169 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"See  here,  Soames;  if  a  fiver'd  be  of  any  use 
to  you — or  ten — or  anythink — " 

When  I  declined  he  did  not  insist  further; 
but  on  my  return  that  evening  I  found  a  five- 
dollar  bill  thrust  under  my  door  in  an  envelope. 

I  didn't  thank  him  when  I  heard  him  come  in; 
I  pretended  to  be  asleep.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  thought  it  hardly  worth  while  to  say  anything. 
It  was  highly  possible  that,  the  next  day  would 
say  all,  for  I  had  reached  the  point  where  it 
seemed  to  me  the  Gordian  knot  must  be  cut. 
One  quick  stroke  of  some  sort — and  Pelly  would 
get  his  five  dollars  back  untouched. 

A  cup  of  chocolate  had  been  all  my  food  that 
day.  Though  I  had  still  a  few  pennies,  less  than 
a  dollar,  it  would  probably  be  all  my  food  on  the 
next  day.  On  the  day  after  that  my  rent  would 
be  due,  and  I  couldn't  ask  the  two  good  women 
who  had  been  kind  to  me  for  credit.  What  would 
be  the  use?  A  new  week  would  bring  me  no 
more  than  the  past  weeks,  so  why  not  end  it  once 
and  for  all? 

Next  morning,  therefore,  I  gave  Pelly  back 
his  bill,  bluffing  him  by  going  out  to  our  usual 
breakfast,  on  which  I  spent  all  I  had  in  the  world 
but  a  nickel  and  a  dime.  I  must  get  something 
to  do  that  day,  or  else — 

Left  alone,  I  tossed  one  of  the  two  coins  to  de 
cide  whether  or  not  I  should  go  back  to  "the 
Intelligence."  Going  back  had  not  been  easy 
for  the  last  few  days,  for  I  had  noticed  cold  looks 
on  the  part  of  Miss  Bryne  and  Miss  Gladfoot, 

170 


THE  THREAD  OF   FLAME 

with  a  tendency  to  take  me  for  a  hoodoo.  Even 
the  young  lady  at  the  desk  had  ceased  to  say 
"Nothing  yet/'  as  I  passed  by,  or  as  much  as  to 
glance  at  me.  But  as  this  was  to  be  the  last 
time,  I  obeyed  the  falling  of  the  coin  and  went. 

I  went — to  receive  a  little  shock.  Miss  Bryne 
was  waiting  for  me  near  the  door,  with  a  bit  of 
paper  in  her  hand. 

"You  must  remember,  Soames,"  she  said,  in 
her  business-like  way,  "that  this  is  not  the  only 
employment-office  in  New  York.  Here's  a  list 
of  addresses,  at  any  of  which  you  may  find  what 
we  haven't  been  able  to  secure  for  you." 

I  took  the  paper,  thanked  her,  and  went  on 
into  the  coop  before  the  significance  of  this  act 
came  to  me.  It  was  dismissal.  It  was  not 
merely  dismissal  from  a  place,  it  was  dismissal 
from  the  possibility  of  a  dismissal.  To  have  a 
place,  even  if  only,  as  Pelly  put  it,  to  be  bounced 
from  it,  was  something;  but  to  be  denied  the 
chance  of  being  bounced  .  .  . 

I  ought  to  have  got  up  there  and  then  and 
walked  out;  but  I  think  I  was  too  stunned.  The 
chatty  groups  were  forming  all  over  the  place,  and 
early  matrons  looking  for  maids  were  being  refused 
first  by  one  spirited  damsel  and  then  by  another. 
In  the  coop  there  was  the  usual  low,  intermittent 
murmur,  accentuated  now  and  then  by  ugly 
words,  and  now  and  then  by  oaths.  To  me  it 
was  no  more  than  the  hum  of  activity  in  the 
streets  in  the  ears  of  a  man  who  is  dying. 

Recovering  from  this  state,  which  was  almost 
171 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

that  of  coma,  I  began  feeling  for  my  hat.  I  had 
to  go  out.  I  had  to  find  a  way  to  do  the  only 
thing  left  for  me  to  do.  I  had  no  idea  of  the 
means,  and  so  must  think  them  over. 

And  just  then  I  heard  a  young  fellow  speaking, 
with  low  gurgles  of  fun.  He  was  at  the  end  of 
the  pen  and  was  narrating  an  experience  of  the 
afternoon  before. 

"It  was  a  whale  of  a  rolled-up  rug  that  must 
have  weighed  five  hunderd  pounds.  *  Carry  that 
up-stairs/  says  the  Floater.  'Like  hell  I  will,' 
says  I.  He  says,  'You'll  carry  that  up  or  you'll 
get  out  o'  here/  I  says,  '\Vell,  Creed  and  Creed 
ain't  the  only  house  to  work  for  in  New  York.' 
'You  was  damn  glad  to  get  here/  he  says,  mad 
der  'n  blazes.  I  says,  'Not  half  so  damn  glad  as 
I'll  be  to  get  somewhere  else/  says  I.  'You've 
had  five  men  on  this  job  in  less  than  four  weeks/ 
says  I,  'and  now  you'll  have  to  get  a  sixth,'  says 
I,  'if  there's  any  one  in  the  city  fool  enough  to 
take  it.  Carryin'  rugs  that  'd  break  a  man's 
back/  I  says,  'is  bad  enough;  but  before  I'd  go 
on  workin'  under  a  blitherin'  old  son  of  a  gun 
like  you—' ' 

I  didn't  wait  to  hear  more.  I  knew  the  estab 
lishment  of  Creed  &  Creed,  not  far  away,  in 
the  lower  part  of  Fifth  Avenue.  Many  a  time 
I  had  stopped  to  admire  the  great  rugs  hung  in 
its  windows  as  a  bait  to  people  living  in  palaces. 
Not  twenty-four  hours  earlier  a  place  had  been 
vacated  there,  a  hard  place,  a  humble  place,  and 
it  was  possible,  barely  possible  .  .  . 

172 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Up  the  street  that  led  to  Washington  Square 
I  ran;  I  ran  through  Washington  Square  itself; 
for  the  two  or  three  blocks  of  Fifth  Avenue  I 
slackened  my  pace  only  in  order  not  to  arrive 
breathless. 

There  it  was  on  a  corner,  the  huge  gray  pile, 
with  its  huge  bright  windows — and  my  heart 
almost  stopped  beating.  Breathless  now  from 
another  cause  than  speed,  I  paused,  nominally 
to  gaze  at  an  immense  Chinese  rug,  but  really 
to  compose  my  mind  to  what  might  easily  prove 
the  last  effort  of  my  life.  This  rug,  too,  hanging 
with  a  graceful  curve  in  which  yellow  deepened 
to  orange  and  orange  to  glints  of  acorn-brown, 
might  easily  prove  the  last  beautiful  thing  my  eyes 
would  ever  rest  upon.  I  remembered  saying  to 
myself  that  beauty  was  the  thread  of  flame  that 
would  lead  me  home;  but  the  thread  of  flame 
had  been  treacherous.  I  could  have  given  an 
expert's  opinion  on  a  work  of  art  like  this;  and 
yet  I  was  begging  for  the  privilege  of  handling 
it  in  the  most  laborious  manner  possible,  just 
that  I  might  eat. 

And  as  I  stared  at  the  thing,  forming  the  words 
in  which  I  should  frame  my  request  for  work,  a 
soft  voice,  close  beside  me,  said: 

"Surely  it  must  be  possible  for  me  to  be  of  use 
to  you!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

AS  I  recall  the  minute  now  my  first  thought 
JLJL  was  of  my  appearance.  I  had  noticed  for 
some  time  past  that  it  was  running  down,  and 
had  regarded  the  change  almost  with  satisfaction. 
The  more  out  at  elbow  I  became  the  less  would 
be  the  difference  between  me  and  any  other 
young  fellow  looking  for  employment.  It  hadn't 
escaped  me  that  I  grew  shabby  less  with  the 
honorable  rough-and-tumble  of  a  working-man 
than  with  the  threadbare,  poignant  poverty  of 
broken-down  gentility;  but  I  hoped  that  no  one 
but  myself  would  perceive  that.  I  had  thus 
grown  careless  of  appearances,  and  during  the 
past  forty-eight  hours  more  careless  than  I  had 
been  hitherto.  Feeling  myself  a  lamentable  ob 
ject,  I  had  more  or  less  dressed  to  suit  the  part. 

I  knew  instantly  that  it  was  this  that  had  in 
spired  the  words  I  had  just  listened  to.  I  knew, 
too,  that  I  must  bluff.  Wretched  as  I  looked,  I 
must  carry  the  situation  off,  with  however  pitiful 
a  bit  of  comedy. 

Turning,  I  lifted  my  hat,  with  what  I  could 
command  of  the  old  dignity  of  bearing. 

"How  early  you  are!"  I  smiled  bravely.  "I 
174 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

didn't  know  young  ladies  were  ever  down-town 
by  a  little  after  ten." 

She  nodded  toward  the  neighboring  bookshop. 
"I've  been  in  there  buying  something  for  Lulu 
to  read.  She's  bored."  She  threw  these  explana 
tions  aside  as  irrelevant  to  anything  we  had  to  say, 
now  that  we  had  met.  "  Where  have  you  been  all 
these  weeks?  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know — ?" 

"How  could  I  let  you  know?  I  called  at  your 
old  house,  and  you  were  gone." 

"You  could  have  easily  found  out.  If  you'd 
merely  called  up  Central  she  would  have  told 
you  the  new  address  of  our  number.  It  wasn't 
kind  of  you." 

"Sometimes  we  have  things  to  do  more  press 
ing  than  just  being  kind." 

"There's  never  anything  more  pressirig  than 
that." 

"Not  for  people  like  you." 

"Not  for  people  like  any  one.  Listen!"  she 
hurried  on,  as  if  there  was  not  a  minute  to  spare. 
"One  of  my  trustees  came  to  me  yesterday.  He 
said  I  had  nearly  thirty  thousand  dollars  of  ac 
cumulated  income  that  there's  nothing  to  do 
with  but  invest." 

"Well?  Don't  you  like  to  see  your  money 
invested  ?" 

"I  like  it  well  enough  when  there's  nothing  else 
to  do  with  it." 

"Which  you  say  that  in  this  case  there  isn't/' 

"Oh,  but  there  is — if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right 
way." 

175 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  don't  have  to  look  at  it  any  way." 

Yes,  you  do,  when  it's — when  it's  only  com 


mon  sense." 


"What's  only  common  sense?" 

"My  being — being  useful  to  you." 

"Oh,  but  you're  useful  to  me  through — through 
your  very  kindness." 

"That's  not  enough.     Surely  you — you  see!" 

I  could  say  quite  truthfully  that  I  didn't  see. 
"But  suppose,"  I  continued,  "that  we  don't  talk 
of  it." 

uYes,"  she  answered,  fiercely,  "and  leave 
everything  where  we  left  it  the  last  time.  You 
see  what's  come  of  that." 

"I  see  what's  come,  of  course;  but  I  don't 
know  that  it's  come  of  that." 

There  were  so  few  people  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  we  were  so  plainly  examining  the  Chinese 
rug,  that  we  could  talk  together  without  attract 
ing  attention. 

"Oh,  what  kind  of  people  are  we?"  she  ex 
claimed,  tapping  with  one  hand  the  book  she  held 
in  the  other.  "Here  I  am  with  more  money  than 
I  know  what  to  do  with;  and  here  are  you — 

"With  all  the  money  I  want." 

Her  brown  eyes  swept  me  from  head  to  foot. 
"That's  not  true,"  she  insisted.  "When  I  first 
knew  you  I  thought — I  thought  you  were  just 
experimenting — " 

"And  how  do  you  know  I'm  not?" 

"I  know  it  from  what  you  said  yourself — that 
last  time." 

,76 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

" What  did  I  say?" 

"That  if  it  wasn't  trouble  it  was  misfortune." 

"Oh,  that!" 

"Yes,  that.  Isn't  it  enough?  And  then  I 
know  it —  Well,  can't  I  see?" 

I  tried  to  laugh  this  off.  "Oh,  I  know  I'm 
rather  seedy-looking,  but  then — " 

"You're  worse  than  seedy-looking;  you're — 
you're — tragic — to  me.  Oh,  I  know  I  haven't 
any  rignt  to  say  so;  but  that's  what  I  complain 
of,  that's  what  I  rebel  against,  that  we've  got 
our  conventions  so  stupidly  organized  that  just 
because  you're  a  man  and  I'm  a  woman  I 
shouldn't  be  allowed  to  help  you  when  I  can." 

"You  do  help  me,  with  your  great  sympathy." 

She  brushed  this  aside.  "That's  no  help.  It 
doesn't  feed  and  clothe  you." 

I  endeavored  to  smile.  "That's  very  plain 
talk,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course  it's  plain  talk,  because  it's  a  per 
fectly  plain  situation.  It  isn't  a  new  thing  to  me 
to  see  people  who've  been  going  without  food. 
At  the  Settlement — " 

I  still  kept  up  the  effort  to  smile.  "If  I'd  been 
going  without  food  there  are  a  dozen  places — " 

"Where  they'd  give  you  a  meal,  after  they'd 
satisfied  themselves  that  you  hadn't  been  drink 
ing.  I  know  all  about  that.  But  would  you 
go?  Would  you  rather  drop  dead  of  starvation 
first  ?  And  what  good  would  it  do  you  in  the  end, 
just  one  meal,  or  two  meals,  when  everything  else 
is  lacking?  It's  the  whole  thing — " 
12  177 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"But  how  would  you  tackle  that,  the  whole 
thing?  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  can't  do  it  my 
self  no  one  else — " 

"I'll  tell  you  as  straightforwardly  as  you  ask 
the  question.  I  should  give  you,  lend  you,  as 
much  money  as  you  wanted,  so  that  you  should 
have  time  to  reorganize  your  life." 

"And  suppose  I  couldn't,  that  I  spent  your 
money  and  was  just  where  J  was  before?" 

"Then  my  conscience  would  be  clear." 

"But  your  conscience  must  be  clear  in  any 


case/' 


"It  isn't.     When  all  you  ask  for  is  to  help — " 
"  But  you  can  help  other  people — who  need  it 


more." 


"Oh,  don't  keep  that  up.  I  know  what  you 
need.  I've  told  you  already  I've  seen  starvation 
before.  Don't  be  offended !  And  when  it's  you, 
some  one  we've  all  known,  and  liked —  Boyd 
liked  you  from  the  first." 

"But  not  from  the  last." 

"He  thinks  you're — you're  strange,  naturally. 
We  all  think  so.  I  think  so.  But  that  doesn't 
make  any  difference  when  you  don't  get  enough 

.     5> 

to  .^.c. 

"And  suppose  I  turned  out  to  be  only  an  ad 
venturer?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  after  a  habit 
she  had.  "That  would  be  your  responsibility. 
Don't  you  see  ?  I'm  not  thinking  so  much  about 
you  as  I  am  about  myself.  It's  nothing  to  me 
what  you  are,  not  any  more  than  what  Lydia  is, 

178 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

or  a  dozen  others  I  could  name  to  you.  I  think 
it  highly  probable  that  Lydia  Blair  will  take  the 
road  we  call  going  to  the  bad — " 

"Oh,  surely  not!" 

This  invitation  to  digression  she  also  swept 
aside.  "She  won't  do  it  with  her  eyes  shut, 
never  fear!  She'll  know  all  about  it,  and  take 
her  own  way  because  it's  hers.  Don't  pity  her. 
If  I  were  half  so  free—" 

"Well?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  you'd  have  another 
chance.  If  you  didn't  use  it  that  would  be  your 
own  affair." 

"Why  do  you  speak  of  another  chance?  Do 
you  think — ?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me  what  I  think.  I  take  it 
for  granted  that — " 

"Yes?  Please  tell  me.  What  is  it  that  you 
take  for  granted?" 

"What  good  would  it  do  for  me  to  tell  you?" 

"It  would  do  the  good  that  I  should  know." 

"Well,  then,  I  take  it  for  granted,  since  you 
insist,  that  you've  done  something,  somewhere — " 

"And  still  you'd  lend  me  as  much  money  as  I 
asked  for?" 

"What  difference  does  it  make  to  me?  I  want 
you  to  have  another  chance.  I  shouldn't  want 
it  if  you  didn't  need  it;  and  you  wouldn't  need 
it  unless  there  was  something  wrong  with  you. 
There!  Is  that  plain  enough?  But  because 
there  is  something  wrong  with  you  I  want  to 
come  in  and  help  you  put  it  right.  I  don't  care 

179 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

who  you  are  or  what  you've  done,  so  long  as  those 
are  the  facts." 

"But  I'm  obliged  to  care,  don't  you  see?  If 
I  were  to  take  advantage  of  your  generosity — " 

"Tell  me  truthfully  now.  Would  you  do  it 
if  I  were  a  man,  a  friend,  who  insisted  on  helping 
you  to  start  again  ?" 

I  tried  to  gain  time.  "It  would  depend  on  the 
motive." 

"We'll  assume  the  motive  to  be  nothing  but 
pure  friendship,  just  the  desire  that  you  should 
have  every  opportunity  to  make  good  again, 
and  nothing  else.  Absolutely  nothing  else!  Do 
you  understand?  Would  you  take  it  from  him 
then?  Please  tell  me  as  frankly  as  if — " 

"I— I  might." 

"And  because  I'm  not  a  man  but  a  woman, 
you  can't." 

"It  isn't  the  same  thing." 

"Which  is  just  what  we  women  complain  of, 
just  what  we  fight  against,  the  stupid  conventions 
that  force  us  into  being  useless  in  a  world — " 

"Oh,  but  there  are  other  ways  of  being  useful." 

"No  other  way  of  being  useful  compensates 
for  the  one  which  seems  to  you  paramount,  above 
all  others,  and  from  which  you  are  debarred." 

"But  why  should  it?  You  and  I  never  met 
till—" 

"You  can't  argue  that  way.  You  can't  reason 
about  the  thing  at  all.  I'm  not  reasoning,  fur 
ther  than  to  say  that — that  I  believe  in  you,  in 
your  power  of — of  coming  back.  That's  the 

180 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

phrase,  isn't  it?  And  as,  apparently,  Fm  the 
only  one  in  a  position  to  go  to  your  aid — " 

She  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  gesture  she 
spmetimes  used  which  implied  that  all  had  been 
said. 

And  in  the  end  we  compromised.  That  is,  I 
told  her  I  had  one  more  possibility.  If  that 
failed,  I  would  let  her  know.  This  she  informed 
me  I  could  do  by  telephone,  as  Boyd's  name  was 
in  the  book.  If  it  didn't  fail  .  .  .  But  as  to 
that  she  forgot  to  exact  a  promise,  just  as  she 
forgot  to  tell  me  her  new  address.  Like  most 
shy  people  who  dash  out  of  their  shyness  for  some 
adventure  too  bold  for  the  audacious,  she  re 
treated  as  suddenly.  Springing  into  her  motor 
as  soon  as  we  had  arrived  at  a  temporary  decision, 
she  drove  away,  leaving  me  still  at  a  loss  as  to 
whether  or  not  I  was  Malvolio. 

Dumfounded  and  distressed  by  this  unex 
pected  meeting,  and  the  still  more  unexpected 
offer  made  in  it,  my  thoughts  began  to  run  wild. 
It  was  in  my  power  to  live,  to  eat,  to  pay  my 
way  for  a  little  longer.  Of  the  money  at  her 
disposal  I  need  accept  no  more  than  a  few  hun 
dred  dollars,  a  trifle  to  her,  but  to  me  everything 
in  the  world.  Even  if  it  did  me  no  more  than  a 
passing  good,  it  would  do  me  that.  If  I  had 
in  the  end  to  "get  out,"  as  I  phrased  it,  I  would 
rather  get  out  in  a  month's  time  than  do  it  that 
very  day.  In  the  mean  while  there  might  be — 
the  miracle. 

It  was  the  mad  prospect  of  all  this  that  sent 
181 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

me  out  of  Fifth  Avenue  to  crawl  along  the  side 
of  Creed  &  Creed's  establishment,  which  flanked 
the  cross-street,  without  noticing  the  way  I  took. 
For  the  minute  I  had  forgotten  the  errand  that 
brought  me  to  this  particular  spot  in  New  York. 
It  had  been  crowded  out  of  my  memory  by  the 
fact  that,  after  all,  it  might  not  matter  whether 
I  found  work  or  not.  I  could  live,  anyhow.  All 
I  had  to  do  was  to  take  a  .telephone  list,  call  up 
Boyd  Averill's  number,  say  that  I  had  changed 
my  mind.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  temptation.  For  you  to  understand 
how  fierce  a  temptation  it  was  you  would  have 
to  remember  that  for  a  month  I  had  been  insuf 
ficiently  fed,  and  that  for  a  week  I  had  not  really 
been  fed  at  all.  Moreover,  I  could  see  before  me 
no  hope  of  being  fed  in  the  immediate  future. 
I  was  asking  myself  whether  it  would  be  common 
sense  on  the  part  of  a  drowning  man  to  refuse 
a  rope  because  a  woman  in  whom  there  might 
be  a  whole  confusion  of  complex  motives  had 
thrown  it,  when  I  suddenly  found  my  passage 
along  the  pavement  blocked. 

It  was  blocked  by  what  appeared  to  be  a  long 
cylindrical  bar,  some  two  or  three  feet  in  diameter. 
Covered  with  burlap,  it  ran  from  a  motor  truck, 
in  which  one  end  still  rested,  toward  the  entrance 
to  that  part  of  Creed  &  Creed's  establishment 
that  lay  slightly  lower  than  the  pavement.  It 
was  a  wide  entrance,  after  which  came  two  or 
three  broad,  shallow  steps,  and  then  a  cavern 
which  was  evidently  a  storehouse.  Two  men 

182 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

were  tugging  at  the  long  object,  the  one  big,  dark, 
brawny,  clad  in  overalls,  and  equal  to  the  work, 
the  other  a  little  elf  of  an  old  man,  nattily  dressed 
for  the  street,  wearing  a  high  soft  felt  hat,  possi 
bly  in  the  hope  of  making  himself  look  taller.  A 
gray  mustache  that  sprang  outward  in  a  semi 
circle  did  not  conceal  a  truculent  mouth,  though 
it  smothered  his  wrathful  expletives.  That  he 
had  once  been  agile  I  could  easily  guess,  but  now 
his  poor  old  joints  were  stiff  from  age  or  disuse. 
It  was  also  clear  that  he  was  lending  a  hand  to  an 
irksome  task  because  of  a  shortage  of  labor. 

While  the  younger  man — he  was  about  my  own 
age — could  manage  his  end  easily  enough,  the  old 
one  tugged  desperately  at  his,  finally  letting  it 
drop. 

"Gr-r-r-r!" 

The  growl  was  that  of  an  irascible  man  too 
angry  to  be  articulate.  If  the  thread  of  flame 
ever  led  me,  it  was  then.  Without  a  minute's 
hesitation,  I  picked  up  the  dropped  end  of  the 
cylinder,  with  no  explanation  beyond  the  words, 
"Let  me  have  a  try,"  and  presently  I  was  finding 
my  way  down  the  steps  and  into  the  cavern. 

"Chuck  it  there,  on  top  oJ  thim,"  my  com 
panion  ordered,  and  our  cylinder  lay  as  one  of 
a  pile  of  similar  cylinders,  which  I  could  see  from 
the  labels  to  have  been  shipped  from  India. 

"There's  eight  or  tin  more  of  thim  things," 
the  big  fellow  was  beginning. 

"Is  that  the  Floater?"  I  asked  in  a  hurried 
undertone,  as  the  little  man  hobbled  down  the 

183 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

steps  and  made  his  way  toward  us  in  the  semi- 
darkness. 

"He  sure  is,  and  some  damn  light  floater  at 
that." 

Before  I  could  analyze  this  reply  the  Floater 
himself  stood  in  front  of  me. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded,  sharply. 

"Do  you  mean  my  name?" 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  about  your  name.  What 
business  had  you  to  pick  up  that  rug?" 

"Only  the  business  of  wanting  to  help.  I 
could  see  it  wasn't  a  gentleman's  job — and — and 
I — I  thought  you  might  take  me  on." 

He  danced  with  indignation. 

"Take  you  on?  Take  you  on?  What  do  you 
mean  by  that?" 

"You  see,  sir,  it  was  this  way.  I've  just  run 
up  from  the  Intelligence  where  I  heard  a  fellow 
gassing  about" — I  varied  the  story  from  that 
which  I  had  heard  at  Miss  Bryne's — "about  bemg 
kicked  out  of  here." 

"Was  he  a  gabby  sort  of  a  guy?"  my  big  col 
league  inquired. 

"That  would  describe  him  exactly;  and  so  I 
thought  if  I  could  reach  here  in  time,  before  you'd 
had  a  chance  to  get  any  one  else — " 

"Chance  to  get  any  one  else?"  the  little  man 
snarled.  "I  can  go  out  into  the  street  and  shovel 
'em  in  by  the  cartload.  Dirt,  I  call  'em!" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  you  haven't  done  it.  That's 
all  I  mean.  I  thought  if  I  got  here  first — " 

It  was  easy  to  size  him  up  as  a  vain  little  terrier, 
184 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

and  my  respectful  manner  softened  him.  He 
stood  back  for  a  minute  to  examine  me. 

"You  don't  look  like  a  fellow  that  'd  be  after 
this  sort  of  a  job.  Does  he,  Bridget?" 

Bridget's  answer,  though  non-committal,  was 
in  my  favor: 

"Sure  I've  seen  ivery  kind  o'  man  lookin'  for 
a  job  at  one  time  or  another.  It's  not  his  looks 
that  '11  tell  in  handling  rugs;  it's  his  boiceps." 

He  tapped  his  own  strong  biceps  to  emphasize 
his  observation,  while  I  endeavored  to  explain. 

"You're  quite  right,  sir.  You'd  see  that  when 
lots  of  other  men  wouldn't.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
this  job  or  any  other  job  would  be  new  to  me.  I 
had  some  money — but  the  war's  got  me  stone- 
broke.  I  lived  in  France  till  just  lately." 

"If  you  lived  in  France,  why  ain't  you 
figritin'?" 

Not  having  the  same  dread  of  inventing  a  tale 
as  with  Boyd  Averiil,  I  said,  boldly: 

"I  did  fight,  till  they  discharged  me.  Got 
a  blow  on  the  head,  and  wasn't  any  good  after 
that.  I  was  with  the  French  army  because  my 
people  lived  over  there.  When  I  got  out  of  it, 
there  was  no  provision  made  for  me,  of  course. 
My  father  and  mother  had  died,  my  father's 
business  had  been  smashed  to  pieces — " 

"What  was  he?" 

Luckily  my  imagination  didn't  fail  me. 

"An  artist.  He  was  just  beginning  to  make 
a  hit.  I  was  to  have  been" — I  sought  for  the 
most  credible  possibility — "an  architect.  I  was 

185 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

to  have  studied  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  that's  the  big 
school  for  architects  in  Paris;  but  of  course  all 
that  was  knocked  on  the  head  when  my  father 
died,  and  so  I  sailed  for  New  York." 

"Haven't  you  got  no  relations  here?" 

I  remembered  that  Lydia  Blair  thought  she 
might  have  seen  me  in  Salt  Lake  City,  but  I  was 
afraid  of  the  Mormon  connotation.  "My  family 
used  to  live  in — in  California;  but  they're  all 
scattered,  and  we'd  been  in  Europe  for  so  many 
years — •" 

"Amur'cans  should  live  in  God's  country — " 

"Yes,  sir;  so  I've  found  out.  If  we  had,  I 
shouldn't  be  asking  for  a  job  in  order  to  get  a 
meal.  I'm  down  to  that,"  I  confessed,  showing 
him  the  nickel  and  the  dime. 

He  took  a  minute  or  two  to  reflect  on  the  situ 
ation,  saying,  finally,  with  a  little  relenting  in  his 
tone : 

"There's  nine  more  rugs  out  in  that  lorry. 
If  you  help  this  man  to  lug  them  in  you'll  get 
fifty  cents." 

If  it  was  not  the  miracle,  it  was  a  sign  and  a 
wonder  none  the  less.  Fifty  cents  would  tide 
me  over  the  night.  I  should  have  sixty-five  cents 
in  all,  and  it  would  be  my  own.  I  should  not 
have  cadged  it  from  a  woman,  whatever  the  mo 
tive  of  her  generosity.  It  was  that  motive 
which  made  me  tremble.  If  it  was  what  it  might 
have  been,  if  I  was  not  a  mere  fatuous  fool,  then 
there  was  no  hole  so  deep  that  I  had  better  not 
hide  in  it,  no  distance  so  great  that  I  had  better 

186 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

not  put  it  between  her  and  me.  It  would  wound 
her  if  I  did,  but  on  every  count  that  would  be 
preferable.  .  .  . 

The  Floater  went  off  to  regions  where  I  couldn't 
follow  him,  and  Bridget  spoke  in  non-committal 
but  not  unkindly  tone. 

"  Better  take  off  that  topcoat  and  hang  it  in 
Clancy's  locker.  Clancy  was  the  gabby  chap 
you  heard  at  Lizzie's.  That's  Lizzie  Bryne. 
Sure  I  moind  her  when  her  mother  kep'  a  little 
notion  store  down  by  Grime  Street,  and  now  the 
airs  she  gives  herself!  Ah,  well,  there's  no  law 
ag'in'  it!  Come  awn  now.  We'll  get  these  other 
bits  in,  because  Daly,  that's  the  driver,  '11  have 
to  be  after  goin'  back  to  the  station  for  the 
Bokharas." 

"  Will  that  be  more  to  unload  ?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"Sure  it'll  be  more  to  unload.  Dee  ye  think 
they'll  walk  off  the  truck  by  theirselves  ?" 

Vaguely  afraid  of  something  hostile  or  super 
cilious  on  Bridget's  part,  I  was  pleasantly  sur 
prised  to  find  him  not  merely  good-natured,  but 
helpful  and  patient,  showing  me  the  small  tricks 
of  unloading  long  burlap  cylinders  from  a  motor 
lorry,  which  proved  to  be  as  much  an  art  in  its 
simple  way  as  anything  else,  and  enlivening  the 
work  by  anecdote.  All  that  he  knew  of  Creed 
&  Creed  I  learned  in  the  course  of  that  half- 
hour,  though  it  turned  out  to  be  little  more  than 
I  knew  myself,  except  as  it  concerned  the  minor 
personnel.  Of  the  heads  of  the  firm  and  the 
managers  he  could  tell  me  only  as  much  as  the 

187 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

peasants  in  the  vale  of  Olympus  could  have  re 
counted  of  the  gods  on  the  mountain-top.  To 
Bridget  they  were  celestial,  shadowy  beings,  seen 
as  they  passed  in  and  out  of  the  office,  or  stopped 
to  look  at  some  new  consignment  from  the  Far 
East;  but  he  barely  knew  their  names. 

The  highest  flight  of  his  information  was  up  to 
the  Floater;  beyond  him  he  seemed  to  consider 
it  useless  to  ascend.  Of  the  gods  on  the  summit, 
the  Floater  was  the  high  priest,  and  in  that  capac 
ity  he,  alone,  was  of  moment  to  those  on  the 
lower  plane.  He  administered  the  favors  and 
meted  out  the  punishments.  "He's  It,"  was 
Bridget's  laconic  phrase,  and  in  the  sentence,  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  or  I  was  concerned,  or 
any  salesman  or  porter  was  concerned,  Creed  & 
Creed's  was  summed  up. 

Of  the  Floater's  anomalous  position  in  the  es 
tablishment,  the  explanation  commonly  accepted 
by  the  porters,  the  "luggers"  they  called  them 
selves,  was  that  he  was  in  possession  of  dark 
secrets,  which  it  would  have  been  perilous  to 
tempt  him  to  divulge,  concerning  the  firm's  pros 
perity.  A  mysterious  blood-relationship  with 
"Old  Man  Creed,"  who  had  founded  the  house 
some  sixty  years  before,  was  also  a  current  specu 
lation.  Certain  it  was  that  his  connection  with 
the  business  antedated  that  of  any  one  among 
either  partners  or  employees,  a  fact  that  gave 
him  an  authority  which  no  one  disputed  and  all 
subordinates  feared. 

The  job  finished,  Bridget  and  I  sat  on  the  pile, 
188 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

while  he  shared  his  lunch  with  me,  and  I  waited 
for  the  Floater  to  bring  me  my  fifty  cents.  When 
he  appeared  at  last,  I  stood  to  attention,  though 
Bridget  nonchalantly  kept  his  seat.  I  learned 
that  if  the  little  man  was  treated  as  an  equal 
in  the  office  he  was  treated  as  an  equal  in  the 
basement.  This  circumstance  gave  to  my  polite 
ness  in  standing  up  and  saying  "sir"  a  value  to 
which  he  was  susceptible,  though  too  crusty  to 
admit  it. 

"There's  another  load  coming,  sir,  isn't  there?" 
I  asked,  humbly,  after  I  had  been  paid. 

"What's  it  to  you  if  there  is?" 

"Only  that  I  might  earn  another  fifty  cents." 

"Earn  another  fifty  cents!  Why,  fifty  cents 
would  pay  you  for  two  such  jobs  as  the  one  you've 
done." 

"Then  I'd  like  to  work  off  what  you've  paid 
me  by  unloading  the  other  lot  for  nothing." 

He  lifted  a  warning  finger  as  he  turned  to  go 
up-stairs.  "See  here,  young  feller!  You  beat 
it.  If  I  find  you  here  when  I  come  down  again — " 

"You  stay  jist  where  y'are,"  Bridget  warned 
me.  "They're  awful  short-handed  above,  and 
customers  comin'  in  by  the  shovelful.  They've 
got  to  have  four  luggers  to  pull  the  stuff  out  for 
the  salesmen  to  show,  and  there's  only  six  of  us 
in  all.  When  Clancy  put  the  skids  under  hisself 
last  night  I  could  see  how  it  'd  be  to-day.  It  was 
a  godsend  to  the  little  ould  man  when  you  blew  in; 
but  he  always  wants  ye  to  think  he  can  beat  the 
game  right  out  of  his  own  hand." 

189 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Thus  encouraged  I  stood  my  ground,  and  when 
the  next  load  came  I  had  the  privilege  of  helping 
Bridget  to  handle  it.  By  the  end  of  the  day  I 
had  not  only  earned  a  dollar  and  a  half  but  had 
been  ordered  by  the  Floater  to  turn  up  again  next 
morning. 

"Ye're  all  right  now,"  Bridget  said,  com 
placently.  "Ye've  got  the  job  so  long  as  ye  can 
hould  it  down.  I'll  give  ye  the  dope  about  that, 
and  wan  thing  is  always  to  trate  him  the  way 
ye've  trated  him  to-day.  It's  what  he  wants 
of  us  other  guys,  and  we've  not  got  the  trick  o' 
handin'  it  out.  Men  like  us,  that's  used  to  a 
free  country,  don't  pass  up  no  soft  talk  to  no  one. 
What's  your  name?" 

I  said  it  was  Jasper  Soames. 

"Sure  that's  a  hell  of  a  name,"  he  commented, 
simply.  "The  byes  'd  never  get  round  the  like 
o'  that.  Yer  name  '11  be  Brogan.  Brogan  was 
what  we  called  the  guy  that  was  here  before 
Clancy,  and  it  done  very  well.  All  right,  then, 
Brogan.  Ye'll  have  Clancy's  locker;  and  moind 
ye  don't  punch  the  clock  a  minute  later  than 
siven  in  the  mornin',  or  that  little  ould  divil  '11 
be  dancin'  round  to  fire  ye." 

So  Brogan  I  was  at  Messrs.  Creed  &  Creed's 
all  through  the  next  two  years. 


CHAPTER  V 

NO  lighter-hearted  man  than  I  trod  the  streets 
of  New  York  that  evening.  I  had  break 
fasted  in  the  morning;  I  had  shared  Bridget's 
cold  meat  and  bread  at  midday;  I  could  "blow 
myself  in"  to  something  to  eat  now,  and  then  go 
happily  to  bed. 

There  was  but  one  flaw  in  this  bliss,  and  that 
was  the  thought  of  Mildred  Averill.  Whether 
she  would  be  glad  or  sorry  that  for  the  minute 
I  was  landing  on  my  feet,  I  could  not  forecast. 
And  yet  when  I  called  her  up  she  pretended  to 
be  glad.  I  say  she  pretended,  only  because  in 
her  first  words  there  was  a  note  of  disappoint 
ment,  perhaps  of  dismay,  though  she  recovered 
herself  quickly. 

"But  I  can  be  easy  in  my  mind  about  you?" 
she  asked,  after  I  had  declined  to  tell  her  what 
my  new  occupation  was. 

"Quite  easy;  only  I  want  you  to  know  how 
grateful  I  am." 

"Oh,  please  don't.  If  I  could  have  done 
more!" 

"Fortunately  that  wasn't  needed." 

"  But  if  it  should  be  needed  in  the  future — " 
191 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"I  hope  it  won't  be." 

"But  if  it  should  be?" 

"Oh,  then  we'd— we'd  see." 

"So  that  for  now  it's — •"  that  note  stole  into 
her  voice  again,  and  with  a  wistful  question  in 
the  intonation — "for  now  it's — it's  good-by?" 

"Only  for  now." 

She  seemed  to  grasp  at  something.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Oh,  just  that — that  the  future — " 

"I  hate  the  future." 

It  was  one  of  her  sudden  outbursts,  and  the 
receiver  was  hung  up. 

After  all,  this  abrupt  termination  to  an  un 
satisfactory  mode  of  speech  was  the  wisest  method 
for  us  both.  We  couldn't  go  on  sparring  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  spar.  Knowing  that 
I  couldn't  speak  plainly  she  had  ceased  to  expect 
me  to  do  so,  and  yet  .  .  . 

When  I  say  that  this  was  a  relief  to  me,  you 
must  understand  it  only  in  the  sense  that  my 
situation  was  too  difficult  to  allow  of  my  inviting 
further  complications.  Had  I  been  free — but 
I  wasn't  free.  The  conviction  that  somewhere 
in  the  world  I  had  permanent  ties  began  to  be  as 
strong  as  the  belief  that  at  some  time  in  my  life 
love  had  been  the  dominating  factor.  There  had 
been  a  woman.  Lydia  Blair  had  seen  her.  Her 
flaming  eyes  haunted  me  from  a  darkness  in 
which  they  were  the  only  thing  living.  The  fact 
that  I  couldn't  construct  the  rest  of  the  portrait 
no  more  permitted  me  to  doubt  the  original  than 

192 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

you  can  doubt  the  existence  of  a  plant  after  you 
have  seen  a  leaf  from  it.  The  best  I  could  hope 
for  now  was  the  privilege  of  living  and  working 
in  some  simple,  elemental  way  that  would  give 
me  the  atmosphere  in  which  to  re-collect  myself, 
recueillementy  the  French  graphically  name  the 
process,  and  grow  unconsciously  back  into  the 
facts  that  effort  would  not  restore  to  me. 

For  that  simple,  elemental  work  and  life  the 
opportunity  came  to  me  at  last.  I  see  now  that 
it  was  opportunity,  though  I  should  not  have 
said  so  at  the  time.  At  the  time  it  was  only  hard 
necessity,  though  hard  necessity  with  those  prod 
ucts  of  shelter  and  food  which  in  themselves 
meant  peace.  I  had  peace,  therefore,  of  a  kind, 
and  to  it  I  am  able  now  to  attribute  that  growth 
and  progress  backward,  if  I  may  so  express  myself, 
which  led  to  the  miracle. 

My  work  next  day  lay  in  peeling  off  the  bur 
lap  from  the  newly  arrived  consignment,  strip 
ping  the  rolls  of  the  sheepskins  in  which  they 
were  wrapped  inside,  spreading  the  rugs  flat,  and 
sweeping  them  with  a  stiff,  strong  broom.  After 
that  we  laid  them  in  assorted  piles,  preparatory 
to  carrying  them  up-stairs.  They  were  Khoras- 
sans,  Kirmanshahs,  Bokharas,  and  Sarouks,  with 
a  superb  lot  of  blue  and  gold  Chinese  reproduced 
on  the  company's  looms  in  India. 

The   good-natured    Peter   Bridget  taking  his 

turn  up-stairs,  my  colleague  that  day  was  an 

American  of  Finnish  extraction,  whose  natural 

sunniness  of  disposition  had  been  soured  by  the 

13  193 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

thwarting  of  a  strong  ambition  to  "get  on." 
Combining  the  broad  features  of  the  Lapp  with 
Scandinavian  hair  and  complexion,  his  expres 
sion  reminded  you  of  a  bright  summer  day  over 
which  a  storm  was  beginning  to  lower.  The  son 
of  one  large  family  and  the  father  of  another,  he 
was  at  war  with  the  world  in  which  his  earning 
capacity  had  come  to  have  its  limitations  fixed 
at  eighteen  dollars  a  week. 

He  was  not  conversational;  he  only  grunted 
remarks  out  of  a  slow-moving  bitterness  of  spirit. 

"What's  the  good  of  always  layin'  the  pipe  and 
never  gettin'  no  oil  along  it  ?  That's  what  I  want 
to  know.  Went  to  work  when  I  was  fourteen, 
and  now  Fm  forty-two,  and  in  exactly  the  same 
spot." 

"You're  not  in  exactly  the  same  spot,"  I  said, 
"because  you've  got  your  wife  and  children." 

"And  the  money  I've  spent  on  that  woman 
and  them  kids!" 

"But  you're  fond  of  them,  aren't  you?" 

"No  better  wife  no  guy  never  had,  and  no  nicer 
little  fam'ly." 

"Well,  then,  that's  so  much  to  the  good. 
Those  are  assets,  aren't  they?  They'll  mean 
more  to  you  than  if  you  had  money  in  the  savings 
bank  and  didn't  have  them." 

"I  can't  eddicate  'em  proper,  or  send  'em  to 
high-school,  let  alone  college,  or  give  'em  nothin' 
like  what  they  ought  to  have.  All  I  can  leave 
'em  when  I  die  is  what  my  father  left  me,  the 
right  not  to  be  able  to  get  nowhere — and  yet 

194 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

you'll  hear  a  lot  of  gabbers  jazzin'  away  about 
this  bein'  the  best  country  for  a  working-man/' 

During  the  lunch-hour  we  drifted  into  Fifth 
Avenue,  joining  the  throng  of  those  who  for  sixty 
minutes  were  like  souls  enjoying  a  respite  from 
limbo.  Limbo,  I  ask  you  to  notice,  is  not  hell; 
but  it  is  far  from  paradise.  The  dictionary  de 
fines  the  word  as  a  borderland,  a  place  of  restraint, 
and  it  was  in  both  those  senses,  I  think,  that  the 
shop  and  the  factory  struck  the  imaginations  of 
these  churning  minds.  The  shop  and  the  factory 
formed  a  borderland,  neither  one  thing  nor  an 
other,  a  nowhere;  but  a  place  of  restraint  none 
the  less.  More  than  the  physical  restraint  in 
volved  in  the  necessity  for  working  was  implied 
by  this;  it  was  restraint  of  the  spirit,  restraint  of 
the  part  of  a  man  that  soars,  restraint  of  the  im 
pulse  to  seize  the  good  things  of  life  in  a  world 
where  they  seemed  to  be  free. 

Though  I  could  understand  little  of  the  con 
versation  around  me — Yiddish,  Polish,  Armenian, 
Czech — I  knew  they  were  talking  of  jobs  and 
bosses  in  relation  to  politics  and  the  big  things 
of  life. 

"What's  the  matter  with  them  guys  at  Albany 
and  Washington  that  they  don't  come  across 
with  laws — ?" 

That  was  the  question  and  that  was  the  com 
plaint.  It  was  one  of  the  two  main  blends  in  the 
current  of  dissatisfaction.  The  other  blend  was 
the  conviction  that  if  those  who  had  the  power 
didn't  right  self-evident  wrongs,  the  wronged 

195 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

would  somehow  have  to  right  themselves.  There 
was  no  speechmaking,  no  stump  oratory,  after 
the  manner  of  a  Celtic  or  Anglo-Saxon  crowd;  all 
was  smothered,  sullen,  burning,  secretive,  and 
intense. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  cavern  the  Finn  re 
marked: 

"No  man  doesn't  mind  work.  He'd  rather 
work  than  loaf,  even  if  he  was  paid  for  loafin'. 
What  he  can't  stick  is  not  havin'  room  to  grow 
in,  bein'  squeezed  into  undersize,  like  a  Chinese 
woman's  foot." 

After  all,  I  reflected,  this  might  be  the  real 
limbo,  not  only  of  the  working-man,  but  of  all  the 
dissatisfied  in  all  ranks  throughout  the  world — 
the  denials  of  the  liberty  to  expand.  Mildred 
Averill  was  rebelling  against  it  in  her  way  as 
much  as  the  Finn  in  his,  as  much  as  any  Jew  or 
Pole  or  Italian  in  all  the  crowd  surging  back  at 
that  minute  to  the  dens  from  which  they  had 
come  out.  Discontent  was  not  confined  to  any 
one  class  or  to  any  one  set  of  needs.  Custom, 
convention,  and  greed  had  clamped  our  energies 
round  and  round  as  with  iron  hoops,  till  all  but 
the  few  among  us  had  lost  the  right  to  grow.  It 
wasn't  a  question  of  pay;  it  wasn't  primarily  a 
question  of  money  at  all,  though  the  question  of 
money  was  involved  in  it.  More  than  anything 
else,  it  was  one  of  a  new  orientation  toward  every 
thing,  with  a  shifting  of  basic  principles.  The 
first  must  become  last  and  the  last  must  become 
first — not  in  the  detail  of  precedence  but  in  that 

196 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

of  the  laws  by  which  we  live — before  men,  as 
men,  could  get  out  of  the  prison-houses,  into 
which  civilization  had  thrust  them,  to  the  broad, 
free  air  to  which  they  were  born.  The  struggle 
between  labor  and  capital  was  a  mere  duel  be 
tween  blind  men.  It  was  bluff  on  the  surface 
by  those  on  both  sides  who  were  afraid  to  put 
the  ax  to  the  root  of  the  tree.  No  symbol  was 
so  eloquent  to  me  of  the  bondage  into  which  the 
human  elements  in  Church  and  State  had  chained 
the  spirit  of  man  as  the  Finn's  comparison  of  the 
Chinese  woman's  foot. 

When  the  Floater  paid  me  another  dollar  and 
a  half  that  night  he  told  me  that  if  I  worked  like 
a  dog,  was  as  meek  as  a  mouse,  and  "didn't  get 
no  labor  rot  into  my  nut"  I  could  have  Clancy's 
job  as  a  regular  thing.  But  by  this  time  I  was 
beginning  to  understand  him.  I  have  already 
called  him  a  terrier,  and  a  terrier  he  was,  with  a 
terrier's  bark,  but  with  a  terrier's  fundamental 
friendliness.  If  you  patted  him,  he  wagged  his 
tail.  True,  he  wagged  it  unwillingly,  ungra 
ciously,  and  with  a  fond  belief  that  you  didn't 
know  he  was  wagging  it  at  all;  but  the  fact  that 
he  did  wag  it  was  enough  for  me. 

It  was  enough  for  us  all.  There  was  not  a 
man  among  the  "luggers"  who  didn't  under 
stand  him,  nor  among  the  salesmen  either,  as  I 
came  to  understand. 

"  Dee  ye  know  how  to  take  that  little  scalpeen  ? 
He's  like  wan  of  thim  Graaks  or  Eytalians  that's 
got  a  quare  talk  of  their  own,  but  you  know  you 

197 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

can  put  it  into  our  talk  and  make  it  mane  some- 
thin'.  Wance  I  was  at  a  circus  where  a  monkey 
what  looked  like  a  little  ould  man  talked  his  kind 
o*  talk,  and  it  made  sinse.  Well,  that's  like  the 
Floater.  He's  like  the  monkey  what  can't  talk 
nothin'  but  monkey-talk;  but  glory  be  to  God! 
he  manes  the  same  thing  as  a  man.  Don't  ye 
moind  him,  Brogan.  When  he  talks  his  talk,  you 
talk  it  to  yerself  in  yer  own.  talk,  and  ye'll  kape 
yer  timper  and  get  everything  straight." 

This  kindly  advice  was  given  me  by  Denis  Gal- 
livan,  the  oldest  of  the  porters,  and  a  sort  of  dean 
of  our  corps.  Small,  wiry,  as  strong  as  a  horse, 
with  a  wizened,  leathery  face  that  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  dried  and  tanned  in  a  hot  sunshine, 
there  was  a  yearning  in  his  blue-black  eyes  like 
that  which  some  of  the  old  Italian  masters  put 
into  the  eyes  of  saints.  Denis,  Bridget,  and  the 
Finn  composed  what  I  may  call  the  permanent 
staff,  the  two  others,  excluding  myself,  being  in 
variably  restless  chaps  who,  like  Clancy,  came 
for  a  few  weeks  and  went  off  again.  With  the 
three  workers  named  I  made  a  fourth,  henceforth 
helping  to  carry  the  responsibility  of  the  house 
on  my  shoulders. 

It  was  a  good  place,  with  pleasant  work.  Two 
or  three  times  I  could  have  had  promotion  and 
a  raise  in  pay,  but  I  had  reasons  of  my  own  for 
staying  where  I  was. 

My  duties  being  simple,  I  enjoyed  the  sheer 
physical  exertion  I  was  obliged  to  make.  Arriv 
ing  about  seven  in  the  morning  I  helped  to  sweep 

198 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  floors,  with  a  special  sweeping  of  the  rugs, 
druggets,  and  mattings  that  had  lain  out  over 
night.  If  there  was  anything  to  be  carried  from 
the  basement  to  the  upper  floor  I  helped  in  that. 
Then,  having  "cleaned"  myself,  as  the  phrase 
went,  I  took  my  place  in  the  shop,  ready  to  pull 
out  the  goods  which  the  salesmen  wanted  to 
display  to  customers,  and  to  put  them  back 
again. 

For  this  there  were  always  four  of  us  in  the 
spacious,  well-lighted  shop,  which  must  have  been 
sixty  feet  long  by  thirty  wide,  and  I  liked  the  dig 
nity  and  quiet  of  all  the  regulation  tasks.  As  a 
rule,  we  were  on  the  floor  by  nine,  though  it  was 
generally  after  ten  before  we  saw  a  customer. 
During  that  hour  of  spare  time  we  porters  hung 
together  at  the  farther  end,  exchanging  in  low 
tones  the  gossip  of  the  day,  confiding  personal 
experiences,  or  discussing  the  war  and  the  re 
construction  of  society.  Now  and  then  one  of 
the  four  or  five  salesmen  would  condescendingly 
join  with  us,  but  for  the  most  part  the  salesmen 
kept  to  themselves,  treating  the  same  topics  from 
a  higher  point  of  view.  The  gods  of  Olympus  did 
little  more  than  enter  by  the  main  door  from 
Fifth  Avenue,  cross  to  their  offices,  after  which 
we  scarcely  saw  them.  Only  the  Floater  moved 
at  will  between  us  and  them,  with  a  little  dog's 
freedom  to  be  equally  at  home  in  the  stable  and 
the  drawing-room. 

A  flicker  of  interest  always  woke  with  the  ar 
rival  of  customers.  They  entered  with  diffidence, 

199 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

confused  by  the  subdued  brilliance  of  the  Persian 
and  Chinese  colors  hanging  on  our  walls,  by  the 
wide  empty  spaces,  and  their  own  ignorance  of 
what  they  came  in  search  of. 

"There's  not  tin  women  in  New  York  '11  know 
the  difference  betwane  a  Kirmanshah  and  an 
Anatolia,"  Denis  said  to  me  one  day,  "and  it  'd 
make  ye  sorry  for  thim  when  they  comes  to  fur- 
nishin'.  Glory  be  to  God,  they'll  walk  in  here 
knowin'  no  more  than  that  they  want  rugs,  and 
it's  all  wan  to  thim  what  ye  puts  before  thim  so 
long  as  it's  the  color  they  like  and  it  lays  on  the 
ground.  If  this  wasn't  the  honestest  house  that 
the  Lord  ever  made  there'd  be  chatin'  till  we  was 
all  in  danger  o'  hell  fire." 

But  in  spite  of  this  ignorance,  we  received  our 
visitors  courteously,  a  salesman  going  forward 
to  meet  all  newcomers  and  conducting  them  to 
the  row  of  reproduced  Louis  Seize  cane-bottomed 
chairs  placed  for  their  convenience.  Then  it 
would  be,  "Bridget,  bring  that  Khorassan — 3246, 
you  know,  that  fine  specimen."  And  Bridget 
would  know,  and  call  the  Finn  to  help  him  lay 
it  out.  Or  it  would  be,  "Brogan,  can  you  find 
the  Meshed  that  came  in  yesterday — 2947?  I 
think  madam  would  like  to  see  it."  On  this 
Denis  and  I  would  haul  out  the  big  carpet,  stretch 
it  at  the  lady's  feet,  listen  to  comments  which, 
as  Denis  put  it,  had  the  value  of  a  milliner's  crit 
icism  of  the  make  of  a  "  floyin'-machine,"  and 
eventually  carry  it  back  to  the  pile  whence  we  had 
taken  it.  I  may  say  here  that  for  customers  we 

200 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

had  little  respect,  except  from  the  point  of  view 
of  their  purchasing  power. 

"Did  ye  ever  see  wan  o'  thim  that  could  tell  a 
Sehna  knot  from  a  Giordes?"  Denis  asked,  scorn 
fully.  "  Did  ye  ever  see  wan  o'  thim  that  knowed 
which  rug  had  a  woolen  warp  and  which  a  cotton, 
or  which  rug  'd  wear,  or  which  'd  all  go  up  in  flock  ? 
If  a  woman  was  to  boy  a  shimmy  that  '11  be  in  rags 
before  it's  been  six  toimes  to  the  wash  with  as 
little  sinse  as  she'll  boy  a  rug  that  ought  to  last 
for  a  hunderd  years  her  husband  'd  be  in  jail  for 
dit." 

But  for  me,  customers  had  one  predominant 
interest.  Among  them  there  might  be  some  one 
I  could  recognize,  or  some  one  who  would  recog 
nize  me.  As  to  the  last,  I  had  one  fear  and  many 
hopes.  My  one  fear  was  that  Mildred  Averill 
or  Lulu  Averill  might  one  day  wander  in;  but 
as  time  went  on  and  they  didn't,  I  ceased  to  dread 
the  mischance.  As  it  also  proved  in  the  end  it 
was  the  same  way  with  my  hopes.  No  one 
turned  up  whom  I  could  hail  as  an  acquaintance; 
no  one  ever  glanced  at  me  with  an  old  friend's 
curiosity. 

So  I  settled  down  to  the  routine  which,  though 
I  didn't  know  it  then,  was  the  mental  rest  that, 
according  to  Doctor  Scattlethwaite,  I  needed  for 
my  recovery.  The  days  were  so  much  alike  that 
I  could  no  more  differentiate  between  them  than 
can  a  man  in  prison.  On  eighteen  dollars  a  week 
I  contrived  to  live  with  that  humble  satisfaction 
of  humble  needs  which  I  learned  to  be  all  that  a 

20 1 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

man  requires.  Little  by  little  I  accommodated 
myself  to  the  outlook  of  my  surroundings,  and 
if  I  never  thought  exactly  like  my  companions 
I  found  myself  able  to  listen  to  their  views  com 
placently.  With  all  three  of  my  more  impor 
tant  co-workers — Denis,  Bridget,  and  the  Finn — 
my  relations  were  cordial,  a  fact  due  largely  to 
their  courteous  respect  for  my  private  history, 
into  which  none  of  them  ever  pried.  Like  Lydia, 
Drinkwater,  and  every  one  else,  they  took  it  for 
granted  that  there  was  something  I  wanted  to 
hide,  and  allowed  me  to  hide  it. 

In  this  way  I  passed  the  end  of  the  year  1916, 
the  whole  of  1917,  and  all  of  1918  up  to  the  begin 
ning  of  December.  Though  the  country  had  in 
the  mean  time  gone  to  war  it  made  little  differ 
ence  to  us.  Denis  was  too  old  to  be  drafted; 
Bridget  and  the  Finn  were  exempted  as  fathers 
of  large  families;  I  was  examined,  and,  for  reasons 
I  do  not  yet  understand,  rejected.  I  should  have 
made  a  very  good  righting  man;  but  I  think  I 
was  looked  upon  as  of  weak  or  uncertain  men 
tality. 

During  all  those  months  I  courted  the  obscurity 
so  easy  to  find.  Between  Creed  &  Creed's  and 
my  squint-eyed  room  with  the  fungi  on  the  man 
telpiece  I  went  by  what  you  might  call  the  back 
ways,  in  order  to  risk  no  meeting  with  Mildred 
Averill  or  her  family.  Since  they  frequented  the 
neighboring  book  store,  one  of  the  best  known 
in  New  York,  they  might  at  some  time  see  me 
going  in  or  out,  and  so  I  kept  to  the  direction  of 

202 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Sixth  Avenue.  Though  I  often  drifted  out  into 
the  midday  throng  of  which  I  have  spoken  al 
ready  there  was  little  danger  in  that,  because  I 
was  swallowed  in  the  crowd.  In  company  for 
the  most  part  with  Sam  Pelly,  I  took  my  meals 
in  places  so  modest  that  Lydia  Blair  was  unlikely 
to  run  across  me;  and  I  had  no  one  else  to  be 
afraid  of. 

Peace  therefore  stole  into  my  racked  soul, 
though  it  was  the  peace  of  death.  While  I  had 
recurrences  of  the  hope  that  my  lost  sense  of 
identity  would  one  day  be  restored  to  me,  I 
dropped  into  the  habit  of  not  thinking  much 
about  it.  I  ate  and  drank;  I  had  shelter  and 
clothes.  The  narrow  margin  on  which  other  work 
ing-people  lived  came  to  seem  enough  for  me. 
Toward  the  great  accidents  of  life,  illness  or  in 
capacity,  I  learned  to  take  the  same  philosophic 
attitude  as  they,  trusting  to  luck,  or  to  something 
too  subtle  and  spiritual  to  put  easily  into  words, 
to  take  care  of  me.  If  I  developed  any  deep, 
strong  principle  of  living  it  was  along  the  lines 
of  the  wish  that  on  a  snowy  December  afternoon 
had  led  me  to  Meeting-House  Green.  I  knew 
that  the  universe  was  filled  with  a  great  Will  and 
tried  to  let  myself  glide  along  on  it  in  simplicity 
and  harmony. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  the  morning  of  the  eleventh  of  December, 
1918,  I  had  been  in  the  basement  helping 
to  unpack  a  consignment  just  come  in  from  India, 
as  I  had  first  done  two  years  before.  I  had,  there 
fore,  not  known  what  passed  on  the  floor  above 
during  the  forenoon,  and  should  have  been  little 
interested  had  I  been  there.  What  I  needed  to 
know  the  Floater  told  me  when  I  appeared  after 
lunch  to  take  my  shift  on  the  main  floor  with 
Bridget  and  the  Finn. 

"You're  to  go  with  the  two  lads  down-stairs'' — 
the  two  of  our  six  porters  who  were  always  tran 
sient — "to  this  number  in  East  Seventy-sixth 
Street,  and  show  the  big  Chinee  antique,  4792, 
and  the  modern  Chinee,  3628,  to  a  lady  that's 
stayin'  there,  and  explain  to  her  the  difference 
between  them.  She'll  take  the  new  one  if  she 
thinks  it's  just  as  good,  and  you're  to  show  her 
that  it  isn't.  She's  not  the  lady  of  the  house. 
Her  name  is  Mrs.  Mountney,  and  she  comes  from 
Boston.  She  saw  them  both  this  morning,  but 
said  she  couldn't  judge  till  she'd  viewed  'em 
private." 

It  was  not  an  unusual  expedition,  though  it 
204 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

was  new  to  me.  For  special  customers,  or  in 
cases  of  big  bits  of  business,  we  sent  out  rugs  on 
approval  or  for  private  view,  though  I  had  never 
before  been  intrusted  with  the  mission.  I  didn't 
wholly  like  the  job;  but  we  were  accustomed  to 
take  both  things  we  didn't  like  and  things  we 
did  as  all  in  the  day's  work. 

At  the  house  in  East  Seventy-sixth  Street  we 
found  ourselves  expected,  the  footman  explain 
ing  that  we  were  to  carry  our  wares  to  the  music- 
room  and  lay  them  out.  The  ladies  were  resting 
after  lunch,  but  Mrs.  Mountney  would  come  to 
us  as  soon  as  she  left  her  room.  With  the  pleas 
ant  free-masonry  of  caste  he  confided  to  me,  as 
with  our  burdens  we  made  our  way  into  the  hall, 
that  Mrs.  Mountney  was  a  nice  little  bit  of  fluff, 
though  not  so  tony  as  he  had  looked  for  in  an  old 
girl  out  of  Boston.  When  it  came  to  class,  the 
lady  of  the  house,  whom  I  thought  he  spoke  of  as 
Lulie,  could  hang  it  all  over  her. 

It  was  so  long  since  I  had  been  in  a  house  of 
the  kind  that  I  took  notes  more  acutely  than  was 
my  habit,  though  my  habit  was  always  to  be  ob 
servant.  What  struck  me  chiefly  was  its  resem 
blance  on  a  larger  scale  to  the  last  of  its  type  I 
had  visited.  Perhaps  the  name  Lulie  had  turned 
my  thoughts  backward;  but  there  was  certainly 
the  same  square  hall,  containing  a  few  monu 
mental  bits  of  furniture  because  they  were  monu 
mental,  the  same  dining-room  opening  out  of  it, 
full  of  high-backed  and  Italian  .  .  .  And  then, 
across  a  corridor  that  ran  to  some  region  behind 

205 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  dining-room,  I  thought  I  saw  a  stocky  figure 
grope  its  way  with  the  kind  of  movement  I  had 
not  seen  since  the  last  time  I  had  met  Drinkwater. 
A  door  opened  and  closed  somewhere,  and  before 
we  reached  the  music-room  I  heard  the  distant 
click  of  a  typewriter. 

That  I  was  nervous  goes  without  saying,  but 
there  were  so  many  chances  of  my  fear  being 
groundless  that  I  did  my  best  to  dismiss  it.  The 
music-room  was  simple,  spacious,  white-and-gold, 
admirably  adapted  not  only  to  the  purpose  it 
served  but  to  that  which  had  brought  us  there. 
When  our  carpets  were  spread  they  made  a  mag 
nificent  gold  spot  in  the  center  of  a  sumptuous 
emptiness. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  nice  little  bit  of  fluff 
tripped  in,  justifying  the  description.  She  was 
one  of  those  instances,  of  which  we  saw  a  good 
many  among  our  customers,  where  a  merciful 
providence  had  given  a  great  deal  of  money  to 
some  one  who  would  have  been  quite  too  insignifi 
cant  without  it.  A  worn  fairness  of  complexion 
was  supplemented  by  cosmetics,  and  an  inade 
quate  stock  of  very  blond  hair  arranged  in  artistic 
disarray  in  order  to  make  the  most  of  it.  To 
offset  the  laces  and  pearls  of  an  elaborate  negli 
gee  by  a  "democratic"  manner,  and  so  put  poor 
working-men  at  their  ease,  she  nodded  to  us  in 
a  friendly,  offhand  way,  saying,  briskly: 

"Now  then!  Let's  see!  Which  is  the  modern 
one  and  which  is  the  antique?  I  can't  tell;  can 
you?'5  Looking  at  me  archly,  she  changed  her 

206 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

tone  to  the  chaffing  one  which  the  French  describe 
as  blagueur.  "  But  of  course  you'll  say  you  can, 
because  that's  your  business.  You've  got  them 
marked  with  some  sort  of  secret  sign,  like  a  con 
jurer  with  coins,  so  as  to  tell  one  from  the  other, 
without  my  knowing  it." 

Having  said  this,  she  began  to  march  round 
the  two  great  gold-covered  oblongs  with  the 
movement  of  a  prowling  little  animal.  Keeping 
my  eye  on  the  main  doorway,  I  pointed  out  that 
while  the  modern  piece  would  please  the  ordinary 
eye  only  the  antique  would  satisfy  the  elect. 
There  was  no  question  but  that  the  Indian  re 
production  was  good.  Any  one  who  took  it 
would  do  more  than  get  his  money's  worth,  since 
it  would  tone  down  with  the  years,  while  the 
hard  wool  of  which  it  was  woven  would  make  it 
stand  comparatively  rough  usage.  But — didn't 
madam  see? — the  antique,  made  on  the  old  Chi 
nese  looms,  was  of  the  softer,  richer  sheen  im 
parted  by  the  softer,  richer  wool;  and  wasn't  the 
heavenly  turquoise-blue  of  the  ornaments  and 
border  of  a  beauty  which  the  modern  dyes  had 
not  begun  to  reproduce? 

As  I  explained  this  and  some  other  character 
istics  of  rugs,  I  was  more  or  less  talking  against 
time.  The  suspicion  that  had  seized  me  on  enter 
ing  the  house  began  to  deepen,  without  my  know 
ing  why. 

"Y-yes;  y-yes,"  the  little  lady  agreed;  "it 
is  lovely,  isn't  it  ?  And  I  suppose  that  if  you're 
buying  a  good  thing  it's  better  to  get  the — " 

207 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She  paused,  looking  out  through  the  great 
doorway  into  the  hall.  I,  too,  looked  out,  to 
see  Mrs.  Averill  in  a  tea-gown,  gazing  in  at  us 
distraitly. 

"Oh,  Lulu,  do  come  here.  This  man,  this 
gentleman,  has  just  been  telling  me  the  most 
interesting  things- 
She  trailed  into  the  music-room  with  the  same 
graceful  languor  with  which  she  had  trailed  into 
the  drawing-room  on  the  occasion  when  we  had 
last  met.  The  two  other  porters  and  myself  be 
ing  negligible  figures  in  the  room,  her  almond 
eyes  rested  listlessly  on  the  rugs,  which  she  stud 
ied  without  remark. 

"Lulu,"  Mrs.  Mountney  began  again,  with 
animation,  "did  you  know  that  in  Persian  rugs 
the  designs  are  outlined  in  rows  of  knots,  and  in 
Chinese  by  clipping  with  the  scissors?  ciseley 
this  ma — this  gentleman  calls  it,  and  you  can 
feel  a  little  line!  Do  put  your  hand  down." 

"Oh,  I'm  too  tired,"  Mrs.  Averill  protested, 
in  her  sweet  drawling  voice,  "and  this  room's  so 
stuffy.  Mildred  said  she'd  have  it  aired;  but 
I  don't  know  what  she's  mooning  over  half  her 
time.  She's  so  dreamy.  I  often  think  she  ought 
to  be  in  a  convent,  or  something  like  that." 

The  little  bit  of  fluff  was  more  interested  in 
rugs  than  in  Mildred. 

"Do  tell  Mrs.  Averill — I'm  staying  with  her — 
what  you've  just  been  saying  about  the  wool. 
Did  you  know,  Lulu,  that  Indian  wool  is  hard  and 
Chinese  soft?"  She  looked  again  toward  the 

208 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

hallway,  where  a  second  figure  had  come  into 
view.  "Mildred,  do  come  here.  There's  the 
most  interesting  things — I'm  so  glad  I  went  to 
that  place  this  morning — and  they've  sent  me 
the  most  interesting  man — Lulu's  like  ice,  but 
you're  artistic." 

Miss  Averill,  too,  advanced  into  the  room;  but 
though  I  was  in  full  view  she  paid  me  and  my 
comrades  no  particular  attention.  It  was  the 
easier  for  me  not  to  speak,  or  to  draw  any  one's 
glance  to  myself,  for  the  reason  that  Mrs. 
Mountney  chattered  on,  repeating  for  Mildred's 
benefit  the  facts  I  had  just  been  giving  her. 

"Just  think  of  having  the  patience  to  clip  with 
the  scissors  round  all  these  designs,  and  it's  the 
same  in  the  modern  rug  as  in  the  antique.  Do 
stoop  down,  Mildred,  and  let  your  fingers  run 
along  the  ciseling;  that's  what  this — this  gentle 
man  calls  it." 

As  the  girl  stooped  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Mountney, 
I  ventured  to  look  at  her  more  closely.  She  was 
perhaps  not  older  than  when  I  had  last  seen  her 
two  years  before,  but  her  face  had  undergone  a 
change.  It  made  you  think  of  faces  chastened, 
possibly  purified,  by  suffering.  Where  there  had 
been  chiefly  a  sympathetic  common  sense  there 
was  now  the  beauty  that  comes  of  elevation. 

Luckily  for  me  Mrs.  Mountney  ran  on,  while 
we  three  men,  with  the  lack  of  individuality  of 
employees  before  customers,  remained  indis 
tinguishable  objects  in  the  background. 

"That's  the  modern  and  that's  the  antique; 
14  209 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

and  I'm  sure  no  one  but  a  rug-man  could  tell  the 
difference  between  them.  This  man — this  gen 
tleman — says  they  can,  but  that's  only  business. 
Hundreds  of  dollars  difference  in  the  price,  almost 
as  much  as  between  a  pair  of  real  pearl  ear-rings 
and  imitation  ones.  What  do  you  say,  Mildred? 
Would  anybody  ever  notice — ?" 

"I  suppose  you'd  be  buying  the  best  because 
it's  the  best,  and  not  because  any  one  would 
notice — " 

"I  should  be  buying  it  for  what  every  one 
would  see.  What's  the  good  of  having  a  thing 
if  it  doesn't  show  what  it  is?  I  hate  the  way 
some  people  have  of  calling  your  attention  to 
every  fine  thing  they've  got  in  the  house,  as  if  you 
weren't  used  to  fine  things  of  your  own.  If  I've 
got  to  tell  every  one  that  that's  a  genuine  old 
Chinese  masterpiece  before  they  notice  it — well, 
it  isn't  worth  it.  But  at  the  same  time  the  effect 
•is  richer;  and  some  people  do  know,  and  talk 
about  it  to  other  people  who  know — there's  that 
to  consider." 

By  this  time  I  was  conscious  of  something 
else. 

Having  got  through  so  many  minutes  without 
recognition  I  was  beginning  to  hope  that,  by  blot 
ting  myself  out,  as  it  were,  between  my  fellow- 
workmen  I  might  finally  escape  detection.  No 
one  had  as  yet  dissociated  any  of  us  from  another, 
the  very  absence  of  personality  on  our  part  re 
ducing  us  to  the  place  of  mere  machines.  As 
a  mere  machine  Mrs.  Averill  and  Mildred  might 

210 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

continue  to  overlook  me,  passing  out  of  the  room 
as  unobservant  as  they  had  come  in. 

But  Lulu  had  begun  a  curious  movement  round 
the  square  of  the  carpets.  She  seemed  to  be 
studying  them;  though  with  the  long  slits  of  her 
Mongolian  eyes  her  glance  might  be  traveling 
anywhere.  Having  had  the  opportunity  to  look 
me  in  the  face,  she  moved  to  where  she  got  me 
in  profile,  afterward  passing  behind  me  and  re 
turning  to  her  original  standpoint  beside  her  sis 
ter  and  her  friend.  Without  further  reference 
to  Mrs.  Mountney,  she  slipped  her  arm  through 
Mildred's,  leading  her  toward  the  grand  piano, 
against  which  they  leaned. 

For  me  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  stand 
still.  A  word,  a  sign,  might  easily  betray  me,  if 
I  had  not  been  betrayed  already.  As  the  con 
versation  went  on,  Mildred  kept  her  back  to  me, 
but  Mrs.  Averill  stood  sidewise,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  throw  me  an  occasional  appraising  glance. 
Apparently  she  was  in  some  doubt,  my  position 
and  my  clothes  rendering  absolute  certainty  diffi 
cult. 

But  Mildred  turned  away  from  the  piano  at 
last,  and  without  examining  me  directly  came 
slowly  down  the  long  room.  Entirely  mistress 
of  herself  she  walked  with  sedateness  and  com 
posure.  The  shyness  and  brusqueness  which 
had  given  her  a  kind  of  aura  in  my  thoughts  dur 
ing  the  past  two  years  seemed  to  have  been  over 
come  by  experience.  In  this  self-command  more 
than  in  any  other  detail  I  observed  a  change  in  her. 

211 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Not  till  she  reached  the  corner  of  the  long  car 
pet  did  she  give  me  the  first  clear,  straightfor 
ward  look.  That  recognition  did  not  come  in 
stantly  told  me  that  I,  too,  must  have  changed. 
Laborious  work  and  a  rough  way  of  living  had 
doubtless  aged  and  probably  hardened  me.  I 
was  dressed,  too,  like  any  other  working-man, 
though  with  the  tidiness  which  our  position  on 
the  selling  floor  exacted.  A  working-man  in  his 
Sunday  clothes  would  perhaps  have  described  me, 
while  my  features  must  have  adapted  themselves 
to  altered  inward  conditions  with  the  facility 
which  features  possess. 

"Is  it  really  you?" 

She  was  standing  in  front  of  me  now,  singling 
me  out  from  the  two  boys  who  had  fallen  a  little 
back.  She  didn't  offer  to  shake  hands;  perhaps 
she  wasn't  sure  enough  of  my  identity;  but  that 
the  circumstances  in  which  she  found  me  made 
no  difference  to  her  was  the  one  fact  apparent. 
Any  emotion  she  may  have  felt  was  expressed  in 
the  quiver  of  a  faint  smile. 

"I  hoped  you  wouldn't  recognize  me,5'  was  all 
I  found  to  say. 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  for  all  the  reasons  that — that  almost  any 
body  would  see  at  a  glance." 

"Perhaps  I'm  not — not  almost  anybody." 

"No;   you're  not." 

"Have  you  been  doing  this  ever  since — ?" 

I  nodded.  "It's  the  job  I  told  you  I  might 
get.  I  did  get  it;  and  so — " 

212 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Have  you  liked  it?" 

"Extremely." 

"Is  that  true,  or  is  it  just — ?" 

"No;  it's  true.  I  could  have  had  better  jobs. 
They  offered  two  or  three  times  to  make  me  a 
salesman;  you  may  remember  that  I  knew  a  good 
deal  about  rugs  already — ;  but  I  preferred  to 
stay  where  I  am." 

"For  what  reason?" 

"I  hardly  know  that  I  can  tell  you,  unless  it 


was  to — to — " 


"To  find  your  soul?" 

"Possibly." 

"And  have  you  found  it?" 

"  I've  found — something.  I'm  not  sure  whether 
it's  my  soul  or  not." 

All  this  was  said  within  the  space  of  perhaps 
two  minutes,  during  which  I  watched  Mrs.  Averill 
and  Mrs.  Mountney,  toward  whom  Mildred 
turned  her  back,  putting  their  heads  together  in 
a  whispered  conversation.  That  it  was  about 
me  I  could  have  gathered  from  their  glances;  but 
a  little  crow  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Mountney  left 
me  no  doubt  about  it. 

"Jasper  Soames!     Why,  that's  the  name — " 

It  was  all  I  caught;  but  it  was  enough  to  put 
even  Mildred  Averill  on  a  secondary  plane. 

"If  you've  found  your  soul — "  she  was  saying, 

"Oh,  I'm  not  sure  of  that.  I  only  feel  that  I've 
found — something.  I  mean  that  something  has 
come,  or  gone,  I'm  not  sure  of  which;  only 
that—" 

213 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Mrs.  Mountney  wheeled  suddenly  from  the 
piano,  trotting  back  to  the  edge  of  the  carpet, 
across  which  she  spoke  to  me. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Copley's  great  portrait 
of  Jasper  Soames?" 

I  nodded,  speechlessly.  I  had  heard  of  it.  In 
my  mind's  eye  I  saw  it,  at  the  head  of  a  great 
staircase,  a  full-length  figure,  wearing  knee- 
breeches  of  bottle-green  satin,  a  gold-embroidered 
waistcoat,  and  a  long  coat  of  ruby  velvet  with 
a  Russian  sable  collar  falling  back  almost  to  the 
shoulders.  A  plate  let  into  the  foot  of  the  frame 
bore  the  name  Jasper  Soames,  with  the  dates  of 
a  birth  and  a  death.  Somewhere  in  my  life  the 
picture  had  been  a  familiar  object. 

I  had  no  time  to  follow  up  this  discovery  before 
Mrs.  Mountney  began  again: 

"Are  you  one  of  his  descendants?" 

"No;  but  my  wife  is." 

The  reply  came  out  before  I  realized  its  signifi 
cance.  I  hardly  knew  what  I  had  said  till  I  heard 
Lulu  Averill  exclaim  with  as  much  indignation  as 
her  indolent  tones  could  carry: 

"But  you  told  my  husband  that  you  were  not 
a  married  man!  Didn't  he,  Mildred?" 

The  situation  was  so  unexpected  that  I  felt  my 
self  like  a  bird  swinging  in  a  cage.  Nothing  was 
steady;  everything  around  me  seemed  to  whirl. 
Then  I  heard  Mildred  speaking  as  if  her  voice 
reached  me  through  a  poor  connection  on  a  tele 
phone. 

"Oh,  that  didn't  matter.  I  knew  he  was  mar- 
214 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

ried  all  along — at  least  I  was  pretty  sure  of  it. 
What  difference  could  it  make  to  us?" 

"It  made  the  difference,"  Mrs.  Averill  drawled, 
peevishly,  "that  we  believed  him." 

But  Mrs.  Mountney  intervened,  waving  the 
others  aside  with  a  motion  of  the  arm. 

"Wait!"  She  looked  at  me  again  across  the 
carpet.  "If  you  married  a  descendant  of  Jasper 
Soames  then  it  was  Violet  Torrance." 

The  mist  that  had  hitherto  enshrined  two  flam 
ing  eyes  seemed  to  part  as  if  torn  by  lightning. 
The  figure  disclosed  was  not  static  like  that  of 
Jasper  Soames,  but  alive  as  the  sky  is  alive  in  a 
storm.  It  was  that  of  my  wife  as  I  had  last  seen 
her.  My  mind  resumed  its  action  at  the  point 
where  its  memory  of  Vio  had  been  shut  off. 

"And,"  Mrs.  Mountney  went  on,  pressing  her 
facts,  "you're  Billy  Harrowby." 

I  could  only  bend  my  head  in  assent. 

"That's  my  name." 

"Then  why— why— ?" 

She  flung  her  hands  apart,  unable  to  continue. 
Lulu  Averill,  moving  with  the  tread  of  a  tigress 
stalking  silently,  stole  down  from  the  piano  to  the 
edge  of  the  carpet.  Mildred's  eyes  as  she  still 
faced  me  were  all  amber-colored  fire.  I  was  like 
a  man  waking  in  the  morning  from  a  night  of 
troubled  dreams. 

Little  Mrs.  Mountney  dragged  her  laces  across 
both  the  rugs  to  confront  me  face  to  face,  stand 
ing  beside  Mildred. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 
215 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I'm  Alice  Tarporley." 

"Oh  yes!  You  were  a  friend  of  Vio's  before 
we  were  married.  I've  heard  her  speak  of  you; 
but  you  lived  in  Denver." 

"I  went  back  to  Boston  only  two  years  ago, 
when  poor  Vio  was  in  such  trouble  because  you 
were — "  She  cried  out,  with  another  wide  motion 
of  the  arms:  "In  the  name  of  God,  man,  what 
does  it  all  mean?" 

But  I  couldn't  go  into  explanations.  I  didn't 
know  where  to  begin. 

"Tell  me  first  how  Vio  is — where  she  is." 

"She  was  perfectly  well  the  day  before  yester 
day,  and  at  your  own  house  in  Boston.  But 
don't  you  know,  don't  you  know — ?  Why,  this 
is  too  awful!  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more 
awful  it  becomes.  Don't  you  know — ?" 

"I — I  don't  know  anything." 

She  got  it  out  at  last. 

"Don't  you  know — Vio  thinks  you're — you're 
dead?" 

Iron  clampings  seemed  to  press  me  round  the 
ribs. 

"No;  I  didn't  know  that.  What  made  her 
think  so?" 

"Who  wouldn't  think  so?  You  were  reported 
missing — and  when  weeks  went  by — and  no  news 
of  you — and  then,  when  your  uniform  was  found 
on  the  bank  of  that  river,  near  Tours,  wasn't  it? 
and  your  papers  in  the  pockets — and  your  letter 
of  credit,  and  everything —  And  here  you  are 

216 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

in  New  York,  going  under  another  name,  working 
like  a  stevedore,  and  looking  like  a  tramp !  Why, 
it's  enough  to  drive  anybody  crazy!" 

I  could  only  stammer:  "I  shall  explain  every 
thing,  after  I've  seen  Vio." 

"You  can't  explain  in  such  a  way  that — " 
She  swung  toward  her  hostess.  "Lulu,  I  must 
go  straight  back  to  Boston  to-night.  There's 
a  train  that  gets  you  there  in  the  morning,  isn't 
there?  I  hate  night  traveling.  I  never  sleep, 
and  I  have  a  headache  all  the  next  day — but 
what's  that  when — ?  If  Vio  hears  this  from  any 
one  but — "  She  turned  to  me  again.  "Then 
it  was  true  that  you'd  been  seen  in  New  York 
hotels?" 

Possibly;  I  don't  know  what  you're  referring 


to." 


"Oh,  every  now  and  then  some  report  went 
round  in  Boston  that  So-and-so  had  seen  you  in 
this  hotel  or  that;  but  nothing  of  the  sort  has 
been  said  for  a  year  or  two,  and  we  thought  that 
it  was  just  the  kind  of  fake  story  that  gets  about. 
But  now!  Well,  I  must  break  the  news  to 
Vio—" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  break  it  myself?  I  could 
call  her  up  by  long  distance." 

"Man,  if  she  heard  your  voice  like  that  it 
would  kill  her.  You  don't  know.  No,  I  must 
go;  there's  no  help  for  it,  headache  or  no  head 
ache.  Mildred  dear,  won't  you  call  Annette? 
I  told  her  she  could  go  to  the  theater  to-night, 
but  now  she'll  have  to  get  our  tickets,  and  pack!" 

217 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She  wrung  her  hands.  "Oh,  dear!  When  a 
man's  dead,  he'd  better  stay  dead!" 

Mildred  slipped  from  the  room.  A  suspicion 
began  to  creep  over  me. 

"Is  there  any  special  reason  for  my  staying 
dead?" 

"How  can  you  when  you're  alive?  That's  the 
important  point.  Vio  will  never  forgive  you  for 
being  alive — and  not  telling  her." 

"She  will  when  she's  heard." 

"She's  got  to  hear  right  away,  and  I'm  going 
to  take  charge  of  it.  You  may  say  it's  none  of 
my  business,  but  I'm  making  it  mine.  I've 
known  Vio  Torrance  since  we  were  tots  together." 

I  ventured  to  remind  her  that  Vio  might  be 
her  friend,  but  that  she  was  my  wife. 

"Wife!"  she  crowed,  scornfully.  "Have  you 
treated  her  like  a  wife — to  be  alive  all  this  time 
and  never  let  her  know!  When  I  tell  you  that 
she's  been  in  mourning  for  you  and  out  again — 
positively  out  again —  Well,  you  can  imagine!" 

"I  can  imagine  so  many  things — " 

But  she  jerked  her  little  person  away  from  me 
toward  the  two  fellows  who  were  trying  dully  to 
follow  the  scene  they  were  witnessing  without 
being  able  to  seize  its  drift. 

"Take  all  this  stuff  back  again  to  where  you 
brought  it  from.  I'm  not  going  to  buy  any  of  it. 
The  idea  of  Billy  Harrowby — "  She  repeated 
the  name  with  a  squeal,  "Billy  Harrowby!  of  all 
people  in  the  world!  Why,  it's  enough  to  drive 
me  out  of  my  senses.  I  suppose  you  don't  know," 

218 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

she  continued,  switching  back  to  me  again,  "that 
they've  put  a  new  man  in  your  place  at  the  Mu 
seum,  over  a  year  ago,  a  Frenchman;  and  that 
Vio  has  given  them  all  your  prints  and  etchings 
for  a  William  Harrowby  Memorial — that's  what 
she  called  it — she  had  to  do  something  of  the  sort 
after  your  tragic  end,  in  common  decency;  and 
you  considered  a  hero,  something  like  Rupert 
Brooke  and  Alan  Seeger,  and  now  what's  it  to 
be — and  you  alive  ?"  A  dramatic  gesture  seemed 
to  claim  this  confusion  as  something  for  which 
Fate  had  made  her  specially  responsible.  "Lulu, 
take  me  away,  for  Heaven's  sake!  I  shall  never 
look  at  a  Chinese  rug  again  without  thinking — " 

When  the  two  ladies,  with  arms  around  each 
other's  waist,  had  passed  into  the  hallway,  and 
out  of  sight,  I  turned  to  my  colleagues,  saying 
merely : 

"I  think  we'd  better  roll  these  up  and  beat  it." 

Neither  made  any  comment  till  we  were  in  the 
lorry  on  our  way  back  to  Creed  &  Creed's,  when 
one  of  them  said  in  an  awe-stricken  tone: 

"For  the  love  o'  Mike,  Brogan,  ain't  your 
name — Brogan?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

TWO  mornings  later  I  was  in  Boston,  sitting 
in  the  lobby  of  one  of  the  great  hotels.  I 
had  come  by  order  of  a  telegram  from  my  brother- 
in-law,  Wolf  Torrance.  A  note  handed  me  on  my 
arrival,  late  the  previous  evening,  requested  me 
to  wait  for  him  before  attempting  to  see  Violet. 
From  her  I  had  had  nothing. 

I  had  come  as  I  was,  with  the  hundred  and 
thirty  dollars  of  my  savings  in  my  pocket,  but 
without  taking  the  time  to  dress  otherwise  than 
in  my  working-man's  best.  Examining  myself 
closely,  now  that  I  was  face  to  face  with  my  old 
life  again,  I  could  see  that  by  imperceptible  de 
grees  my  whole  appearance  had  taken  on  those 
shades  which  distinguish  the  working-man  from 
men  in  more  sophisticated  walks  in  life.  Vio 
Harrowby  as  the  wife  of  a  working-man,  or  of 
any  one  looking  like  a  working-man,  was  an  in 
conceivable  image. 

My  leaving  New  York  had  been  made  simpler 
for  me  than  I  could  have  ventured  to  hope. 
Whatever  the  tale  told  by  the  lads  who  had  ac 
companied  me  to  East  Seventy-sixth  Street,  it 
had  awed  the  luggers,  impressed  the  salesmen, 
and  reached  the  ears  of  the  Olympian  gods.  It 
was  not  often,  I  fancy,  that  Creed  &  Creed's 

220 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

was  the  scene  of  mystery.  That  there  was  a 
secret  about  me  every  one  knew,  of  course;  but 
it  had  been  connected  with  vague  romantic  tales 
of  squandering  the  family  estate,  of  cheating  at 
cards,  or  of  other  forms  of  aristocratic  misdoings. 
So  long  as  I  didn't  put  on  airs,  and  answered  sub 
missively  to  the  name  of  Brogan,  this  was  not 
laid  up  against  me  or  treated  otherwise  than  as 
a  misfortune.  Now  that  an  explanation  seemed 
to  be  coming  to  the  light  the  effect,  for  that  morn 
ing  at  least,  was  to  strike  my  comrades  dumb. 
They  stared  at  me,  but  kept  at  a  respectful  dis 
tance,  somewhat  like  school-boys  with  one  of 
their  number  smitten  by  domestic  calamity. 
Salesmen  who,  except  for  an  order  to  pull  out  or 
put  back  a  rug,  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to 
notice  me,  came  and  engaged  me  in  polite  con 
versation,  while  one  or  two  of  the  partners  made 
errands  into  the  shop  on  purpose,  as  I  surmised, 
to  get  a  look  at  me.  The  single  moment  that 
could  have  been  called  dramatic  fell  to  the  Floater, 
who  came  in,  during  the  forenoon,  with  a  telegram 
and  a  special-delivery  letter  in  his  hand.  They 
had  been  sent  to  Creed  &  Creed's,  since  that  was 
my  only  known  address. 

"I  suppose  these  wouldn't  be  for  you,"  was 
the  Floater's  choice  of  words,  as  he  offered  them 
for  my  inspection. 

The  telegram  was  for  William  Harrowby,  the 
letter  to  William  Harrowby,  Esquire. 

"That's  my  name,  my  real  name,"  I  ad 
mitted,  humbly. 

221 


THE  THREAD  OF   FLAME 

It  was  natural  for  him  to  hide  his  curiosity 
under  a  veil  of  sputtering  disdain. 

"Thought  it'd  be.  Never  did  take  stock  in 
that  damfool  name  you  give  when  you  first  come 
here.  'Twa'n't  fit  for  a  dog  or  a  horse — and  you 
goin*  just  as  easy  by  the  name  o'  Brogan. 
Couldn't  any  one  see?'9 

As  to  what  any  one  could  see  I  didn't  inquire, 
being  too  eager  to  open  my  telegram.  Though 
I  scarcely  hoped  that  it  could  be  from  Vio  my 
heart  sank  a  little  when  I  saw  that  it  was  not. 

"Come  at  once.  Stay  at  the  Normandy. 
Wait  for  me  before  seeing  Violet.  '  Explanations 
expected.  J.  DnWoLFE  TORRANCE." 

The  spirit  of  the  letter  was  different.  Bearing 
neither  formal  beginning  nor  signature,  it  was 
dated  from  the  house  in  East  Seventy-sixth  Street. 

"I  am  so  glad  for  your  sake.  Though  I  do  not 
understand,  I  have  confidence.  I  have  always 
had  confidence — without  understanding.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  you  will  tell  me;  but  that  shall  be 
as  you  please.  Just  now  I  only  want  you  to  know 
that  almost  from  the  beginning  of  our  acquaint 
ance  I  thought  you  had  a  wife.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  or  why  the  conviction  was  borne  in  on  me; 
but  it  was.  Possibly  I  was  interested  in  you  for 
her  sake  a  little,  with  that  kind  of  secret  sister 
hood  which  more  or  less  binds  all  women  together, 
and  which  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  small  mu- 

222 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

tual  irritations  we  classify  as  feline.  In  any  case 
I  knew  it — or  I  so  nearly  knew  it  as  to  be  able  to 
take  it  for  granted.  If  you  go  back  to  your  home, 
then,  you  will  have  more  than  my  good  wishes, 
you  will  both  have  them.  Should  there  be  any 
thing  to  keep  you  apart  you  will  have  more  than 
my  good  wishes  still.  Don't  ask  me  why  I  say 
these  things,  because  I  scarcely  know.  Don't  try 
to  interpret  me,  either,  for  you  are  extremely 
likely  to  be  wrong.  In  our  talks  together  you 
must  have  seen  that  I  am  in  rebellion  against  be 
ing  bound  by  other  people's  rules  of  conduct, 
and  as  far  as  I  have  the  courage  I  brave  the  in 
ferences  drawn  from  what  I  do.  My  weakness 
is  that  I  have  not  much  courage.  All  the  same, 
as  I  want  to  give  you  a  kind  of  blessing  in  this 
new  turn  in  your  life,  I  keep  repeating  of  you 
some  words  which  I  think  must  come  from  Ten 
nyson: 

''Go  forth,  and  break  through  all, 
Till  one  shall  crown  thee,  far  in  the  spiritual 
city.' ' 

This  letter,  too,  made  my  leaving  New  York 
easier.  Possibly  it  was  written  with  that  intent. 
"Don't  try  to  interpret  me,"  she  had  said,  and 
I  saw  the  wisdom  of  following  the  counsel.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  the  new  turn  to  the  wheel  taxed 
my  mental  resources  to  the  utmost. 

As  nearly  as  I  could  judge,  those  mental  re 
sources  were  normal  again.  My  return  to  the 
old  conditions  I  can  only  compare  to  waking 

223 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

from  a  drugged  unconsciousness.  The  repair 
of  a  broken  telegraphic  or  telephonic  connection 
might  also  give  an  idea  of  what  had  taken  place 
in  me.  Re-establishment  effected,  messages  went 
simply;  that  was  all  I  could  say.  The  mental 
rest  induced  by  two  years  of  physical  exertion, 
with  little  or  no  thought  for  the  morrow  from  any 
point  of  view,  had  apparently  given  the  rup 
tured  brain  cells  the  time  to  reconstruct  them 
selves.  Physiologically  I  may  be  expressing  my 
self  inexactly;  but  that  is  of  no  moment.  What 
is  important  is  the  fact  that  from  the  instant 
when  Alice  Mountney  said,  "You're  Billy 
Harrowby,"  the  complete  function  of  the  brain 
seemed  to  be  resumed.  There  was  no  more  in 
the  nature  of  a  shock  than  there  is  in  remember 
ing  anything  else  forgotten. 

More  difficult  to  become  accustomed  to  were 
the  outward  conditions.  Having  accepted  the 
habits  of  poverty,  those  of  financial  ease  seemed 
alien.  They  were  uncomfortable,  too,  like  an 
outlandish  style  of  dress.  To  sleep  in  a  luxurious 
bed,  to  order  whatever  I  chose  for  breakfast,  was 
as  odd  for  me  as  a  reversion  to  laces  and  ruffles 
in  my  costume.  There  was  a  marvelous  thrill 
in  it,  however,  with  a  sense  of  trembling  antici 
pation.  A  soul  on  the  outer  edge  of  paradise, 
after  a  life  of  vicissitude  and  stint,  would  doubt 
less  have  some  such  vision  of  abundance  and 
peace  as  that  which  filled  my  horizon. 

But  before  Christian  arrives  at  the  Celestial 
City  which  is  in  sight  he  is  reminded  that  a  few 

224 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

difficulties  remain  to  be  faced,  and  in  some  such 
light  I  regarded  the  interview  with  Wolf.  He 
came  at  last,  pushing  round  the  revolving  door, 
and  standing  on  the  threshold  with  a  searching 
look  in  his  silly,  hungry  eyes.  Hatted  and  fur- 
coated,  he  had  that  air  of  divine  right  to  all  that 
was  best  on  earth  which  was  one  of  the  qualities 
that,  to  me  at  least,  had  always  made  him  un 
bearable.  Perhaps  because  I  had  had  the  same 
conviction  about  myself  I  could  tolerate  it  less 
in  him. 

Every  one  called  him  Wolf,  partly  because  of 
his  name,  but  more  because  he  looked  like  the 
animal.  With  a  jaw  extraordinarily  long  and 
narrow,  emphasized  rather  than  concealed  by  a 
beard  trimmed  carefully  to  a  point,  his  smile  lit 
up  a  row  of  gleaming  upper  teeth  best  described 
as  fangs.  His  small  eyes  were  at  once  eager, 
greedy,  and  fatuous;  and  yet  there  was  that  in 
his  personality  which  stamped  him  as  of  recog 
nized  social  superiority.  In  the  same  way  that 
a  picture  can  be  spoken  of  as  a  poor  example  of  a 
good  school,  Wolf  might  have  been  reckoned 
as  a  second-rate  specimen  of  a  thoroughbred 
stock.  Even  as  he  stood  you  would  have  put 
him  down  as  belonging  to  the  higher  strata  in  any 
community,  and  in  sheer  right  of  his  forebears  a 
member  of  the  best  among  its  clubs. 

Instead  of  going  forward  and  making  myself 

known  I  allowed  him  to  discover  me.     It  was  one 

more  proof  of  my  having  changed  that  more  than 

once  his  eye  traveled  over  me  without  recogni- 

15  225 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

tion.  It  must  be  remembered  that  I  was  no 
longer  seedy;  I  was  only  different.  It  was  not 
the  degree  but  the  kind  that  put  him  out  of  his 
reckoning. 

When  in  the  end  he  selected  me  from  the  crowd 
it  was  rather  as  a  possibility  than  as  his  very  man. 
Coming  forward  with  that  inquiring,  and  yet 
doubtful,  air  which  people  take  on  when  scarcely 
able  to  believe  what  they  see,  he  halted  with  a 
bland,  incredulous  smile. 

"Well!" 

With  feelings  in  no  wise  different  from  those 
of  a  man  charged  with  a  crime  of  which  he  knows 
himself  guilty,  I  struggled  to  my  feet: 

"Hello,  Wolf!" 

Wolf's  small  eyes  roamed  from  my  head  to  my 
feet  and  from  my  feet  to  my  head  before  he  spoke 
again : 

"So  you've  decided  to  come  back." 

The  grin  that  accompanied  these  words  was 
partly  nervous,  but  partly  due  to  his  pose  of  tak 
ing  life  as  the  kind  of  joke  which  he  was  man-of- 
the-world  enough  to  appreciate. 

"As  you  see,"  I  responded,  with  a  sickly  grin 
on  my  own  part. 

In  some  lifeless  manner  we  shook  hands,  after 
which  I  asked  him  to  be  seated. 

On  his  taking  off  his  hat  I  observed  that  during 
the  three  years  and  more  since  I  had  seen  him 
last  he  had  grown  bald,  while,  with  something  of 
a  pang,  I  wondered  for  the  first  time  if  I  should 
find  a  change  in  Vio. 

226 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Why  didn't  you  come  before?" 

"I  should  have  come  if  I  could.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  couldn't.'9 

"Couldn't— why?" 

"Didn't  know  where  to  go." 

"What's  that  mean?" 

"Exactly  what  it  says." 

"That  you  didn't  know  where  to — ?" 

I  tapped  my  forehead.  "Had  a — had  a — 
shock — or  something." 

His  gleaming  smile  was  saved  from  ferocity 
only  by  being  inane. 

"Went  dotty?" 

"If  you  like." 

"Great  Scott!  But  why — why  didn't  some 
one  let  us  know?" 

"They  couldn't.  I — I  seem  to  have  taken 
care  of  that.  Perhaps  I'd  better — better  tell  you 
all  about  it,  that  is,  as  far  as  I  know." 

He  nodded,  taking  out  his  cigar-case  and  offer 
ing  me  a  cigar.  When  I  declined  it  he  took  one 
himself,  bit  off  the  end,  lighted  it,  and  in  general 
carried  himself  as  if  my  approaching  confidences 
wouldn't  matter  much.  I  resented  this  the  less, 
knowing  it  to  be  his  attitude  toward  every  one 
and  everything.  All  that  I  cared  for  was  that 
he  should  be  in  a  position  to  give  a  correct  account 
to  Violet,  in  case  she  insisted  on  hearing  his  re 
port  before  seeing  me. 

"You  remember  how  I  came  to  go  over  and 
join  the  American  Ambulance  Corps  in  France?" 

He  said  he  did  not  remember  it. 
227 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Well,  I  didn't  do  it  of  my  own  accord.  I — I 
loathed  the  idea.  If  we'd  been  in  the  war  at  the 
time  of  course  I  should  have  done  anything  I 
could;  but  we  were  not  in  the  war.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  if  Vio  had  only  let  me  wait  I 
could  have  been  of  more  use  in  my  own  par 
ticular  line." 

"You  mean  what  we  used  to  call  the  old- woman 
line." 

"If  you  choose  to  put  it  that  way." 

"Didn't  you  put  it  in  that  way  yourself?" 

"As  a  feeble  joke,  yes.  But  we'll  let  that  pass. 
All  I  mean  is  that  as  head  of  the  Department  of 
Textiles  in  the  Museum  of  Fine  Arts  I  knew  a  lot 
of  a  subject  that  became  of  great  importance  when 
we  went  into  the  war;  so  that,  if  Vio  had 
waited — " 

"Vio,"  he  grinned,  "was  like  a  bunch  of  other 
women  who'd  caught  the  fever  of  sacrifice,  what? 
When  all  their  swell  lady  friends  in  England  and 
France  were  giving  up  their  dear  ones,  they  didn't 
want  not  to  be  in  the  swim.  Don't  think  I  didn't 
go  through  it,  old  chap.  Vio  was  simply  crazy 
to  give  up  a  dear  one.  Before  she'd  got  you  she'd 
been  after  me.  When  Hilda  Swain  drove  her 
two  sons  into  being  stokers  in  the  navy,  and 
killed  one  of  them  with  the  unaccustomed  work, 
I  thought  Vio  would  go  off  her  chump  with  a  sense 
of  her  uselessness  to  a  great  cause.  Those  were 
days  when  to  be  Vio's  dear  one  meant  to  go  in 
danger  of  your  life." 

A  hundred  memories  crowded  in  on  me. 
228 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Do  you  think  that  was  it?  It  wasn't  that — • 
that  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me?" 

His  answer  struck  me  oddly. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  not  then.     Lord,  no!" 

I  repressed  the  questions  these  words  called 
up,  taking  a  minute  to  think  the  situation 
over. 

"At  any  rate,  I  went,"  I  continued,  with  out 
ward  calm.  "It  was  after  a  rather  stormy  scene 
with  Vio,  in  which  she  said  she  thought  she  had 
married  a  man  and  not  a  nervous  old  lady." 

"Oh,  she  said  worse  than  that  to  me,  lots  of 
times,  what?" 

"Yes,  but  you  weren't  her  husband;  and  you 
were  not  desperately  in  love  with  her." 

"Often  thought  Vio  was  like  one  of  those  queer- 
mixed  cocktails  that  '11  set  chaps  off  their  nuts 
who'll  take  a  tumbler  of  whisky  neat  and  never 
turn  a  hair." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  I  agreed;  "but 
it  makes  the  kind  of  woman  whose  contempt  is 
the  harder  to  put  up  with.  When  she  began 
handing  it  out  to  me — well,  I  went.  That's  all 
there  is  to  be  said  about  it.  You  tell  me  that 
Vio  wanted  to  sacrifice  a  dear  one;  and  she  did. 
I  was  no  more  fit  for  the  job  I  undertook  than — 
than  little  Bobby  would  have  been  if  he'd  lived 
till  then." 

"That's  another  thing.  Vio  should  have  had 
more  children,  what?" 

"Ah,  well!  She  didn't  want  them.  When 
little  Bobby  went  she  said  she  couldn't  go  through 

229 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

it  all  a  second  time,  and  so —  But  I'm  trying  to 
tell  you  what  happened/' 

"Well,  goon/' 

I  narrated  my  experiences  in  the  Ambulance 
Corps  in  words  that  have  been  so  often  given  in 
print  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  repeat  them. 
What  has  not  so  frequently  been  recorded,  be 
cause  not  every  one  has  felt  it  to  the  same  degree, 
is  the  racking  of  spirit,  soul,  and  body  by  the  un 
relieved  horror  of  the  days  and  nights.  I  sup 
pose  I  must  own  to  being  in  regard  to  all  this  more 
delicately  constituted  than  the  majority  of  men. 
There  were  others  like  me,  but  they  were  rela 
tively  not  numerous.  Of  them,  too,  we  hear 
little,  partly  because  not  all  of  those  who  survived 
like  to  confess  the  weakness,  and  few  survived. 
If  it  were  possible  to  get  at  the  facts  I  think  it 
would  be  found  that  among  those  who  sickened 
and  died  a  large  proportion  were  predisposed 
by  sheer  inability  to  go  on  living  any  longer 
in  this  world  of  men.  I  could  give  you  the 
names  of  not  a  few  in  whom  the  soul  was 
stricken  before  the  body  was.  They  were  for 
the  most  part  sensitively  organized  fellows, 
lovers  of  the  beautiful,  and  they  simply  couldn't 
live.  Officially  their  deaths  are  ascribed  to 
pneumonia  or  to  something  else;  but  the  real 
cause,  while  right  on  the  surface,  was  beyond 
the  doctor's  diagnosis. 

I  didn't  sicken;  and  I  didn't  die;  I  wasn't  even 
wounded.  What  happened  was  that  at  Bourg- 
la-Comtesse  a  shell  came  down  in  the  midst  of  a 

230 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

bunch  of  us  who  were  stretching  our  limbs  and 
washing  up  after  a  night  in  a  stifling  dugout  .  .  . 
and  some  time  during  the  following  twenty-four 
hours  I  recovered  consciousness,  lying  on  my 
belly  in  the  darkness,  with  my  face  buried  in  the 
damp  grass  of  a  meadow,  like  a  dead  man. 

I  lay  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  trying  to  re 
construct  the  happenings  that  had  put  me  there, 
and  to  convince  myself  that  I  was  unhurt.  Ex 
cept  for  a  beast  munching  not  far  away,  no  living 
thing  seemed  to  be  near  me.  On  the  left  the 
ruined  walls  of  Bourg-la-Comtesse  were  barely 
visible  through  the  starlight,  while  to  my  right 
a  jagged  row  of  tree-tops  fringed  the  sky-line. 
In  the  velvety  blackness  in  front  of  me  the  stars 
were  dimmed  by  shells  hanging  over  No  Man's 
Land,  Verey  lights,  darting  upward,  and  radiant 
bursts  of  shrapnel.  I  remembered  that  our  sec 
tion  had  halted  at  an  abri  a  little  to  the  west  of 
the  village,  and  dragging  myself  from  the  ground 
forced  my  chilled  limbs  to  carry  me  toward  the 
spot  where  some  of  my  comrades  might  be  left 
alive. 

But  whether  I  mistook  the  way,  or  whether 
they  had  gone  off  leaving  me  for  dead,  I  was  un 
able  to  explain  to  Wolf.  I  only  know  that  I 
walked  and  walked,  and  found  no  one.  The 
world  had  been  suddenly  deserted.  Except  for 
an  occasional  horse  or  cow,  that  paused  in  its 
grazing  to  watch  me  pass,  or  the  scurrying  of 
some  small  wild  thing  through  a  hedge,  I  seemed 
the  only  creature  astir.  Dead  villages,  dead 

231 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

chateaux,  dead  farms,  dead  gardens,  dead  forests, 
dead  lorries,  dead  tanks,  dead  horses,  dead  men, 
and  a  dead  self,  or  a  self  that  had  only  partially 
come  back  to  life,  were  the  features  of  that  lonely 
tramp  through  the  darkness. 

With  no  other  aim  than  a  vague  hope  of  join 
ing  up  again  with  my  section  I  plodded  on  till 
dawn.  Though  my  watch  had  run  down,  and 
there  was  no  change  as  yet  in  the  light,  I  knew 
when  dawn  was  approaching  by  a  sleepy  twitter 
in  a  hedge.  Another  twitter  awoke  a  few  yards 
farther  on,  and  then  another  and  another.  Pres 
ently  the  whole  countryside  was  alive,  not  with 
song,  but  with  that  chirrupy  hymn  to  Light  which 
always  precedes  the  sunrise,  and  ceases  before  the 
sun  has  risen.  Wandering  away  from  the  front, 
by  instinct,  not  on  purpose,  I  was  now  in  a  region 
relatively  untouched  by  calamity,  with  grapes 
hard  and  green  in  the  vineyards  and  poppies  in 
the  ripening  wheat-fields. 

Between  eight  and  nine  I  reached  a  village, 
where  I  breakfasted  at  a  wine-shop,  explaining 
myself  as  an  American  charged  with  a  mission 
that  was  taking  me  across  country.  Stray  sol 
diers  being  common,  I  had  no  harder  task  than 
to  profit  by  the  sympathy  accorded  to  my  Brit 
ish-seeming  uniform.  So  I  tramped  on  again, 
and  on,  always  with  a  stupefied  half-idea  of  find 
ing  my  section,  but  with  no  real  motive  in  my 
mind.  If  I  had  a  real  motive  it  was  in  a  dull, 
blind,  animal  instinct  to  get  away  from  the  bru 
tality  in  which  I  had  been  living  for  the  past  six 

232 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

months,  even  though  I  knew  I  should  be  headed 
off  and  turned  back  again. 

But  I  wasn't.  In  that  land  of  agony  I  went 
my  way  unheeded.  I  also  went  my  way  unheed 
ing.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  more  or  less 
pointless  pilgrimages  I  made  later  in  New  York. 
To  my  anguished  nervous  system  there  was  a 
soothing  quality  in  being  on  the  move.  So  on 
the  move  I  kept,  hardly  knowing  why,  except 
that  it  was  to  get  away  from  what  was  right  be 
hind  me. 

And  yet  I  had  clearly  the  impression  that  I  was 
merely  enjoying  a  breathing  spell.  I  didn't  mean 
to  run  away.  I  knew  I  was  Billy  Harrowby,  and 
that  for  my  very  name's  sake  I  must  return  to  my 
task  at  the  first  minute  possible.  It  was  only  not 
possible,  because  as  I  continued  my  aimless  drift 
ing  along  the  roads  I  got  farther  away  from  my 
starting-point. 

Absolute  mental  confusion  must  have  come  by 
such  gradual  transitions  that  I  have  no  memory 
of  the  stages  of  the  change.  I  do  recall  that  'at 
a  certain  time  and  place  I  came  to  an  under 
standing  with  myself  that  Billy  Harrowby  had 
been  blown  to  bits  by  a  shell  near  Bourg-la-Com- 
tesse,  and  that  I,  who  wore  his  uniform  and  car 
ried  his  letter  of  credit  in  my  pocket,  was  no  more 
than  his  astral  shape  stalking  through  a  world 
from  which  he  had  departed.  To  get  rid  of  this 
astral  shape,  to  get  rid  of  everything  that  per 
tained  to  the  man  who  had  passed  through  horrors 
that  would  turn  all  future  living  into  nightmare, 

233 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

began  to  seem  to  me  a  necessary  task.  Only  by 
doing  this  could  Billy  Harrowby's  ghost  be  laid, 
and  the  phantasms  that  walked  with  it  dispelled. 
By  the  time  I  reached  Tours  the  hallucination 
had  assumed  the  form  of  a  consecrated  duty,  and 
to  it  I  applied  myself  as  to  some  holy  ceremonial 
rite. 

In  narrating  this  to  Wolf  some  of  the  old  vivid 
ness  came  back  to  me.  I  saw  myself  again  in 
specting  all  the  environs  of  Tours — Plessis-les- 
Tours,  Marmoutiers,  Laroche-sur-Loire,  and  as 
far  away  as  the  junction  at  St.-Pierre — for  suit 
able  spots  in  which  to  lay  Billy  Harrowby  down 
and  become  my  real  self.  In  the  end  I  selected 
a  small  stream,  the  Padrille  I  think  it  is  called, 
which  flows  into  the  Loire  a  mile  or  two  beyond 
Plessis.  There  is  a  spot  there  where  the  stream 
flows  through  a  wood,  and  there  is  a  spot  on  the 
stream's  bank  where  wood  is  denser  than  it  is 
elsewhere. 

Having  selected  this  as  the  scene  of  Billy  Har 
rowby's  exit,  the  rest  of  my  plans  became  easy. 
For  two  or  three  days  I  busied  myself  with  dis 
creetly  purchasing  a  new  outfit.  I  remember 
that  it  was  a  point  of  honor  with  me  not  to  be  too 
spendthrift  with  Billy  Harrowby's  cash,  seeing 
that  for  the  man  who  was  to  survive,  anything, 
however  modest,  would  be  enough.  Further  than 
separating  myself  from  the  unhappy  ambulance- 
driver  who  had  seen  such  dreadful  things  since 
arriving  in  France  I  had  no  ambitions. 

The  purchases  made,  it  was  a  simple  matter  to 
234 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

carry  them  to  the  bank  of  the  Padrille  and  change 
completely.  A  soldier  entered  on  one  side  of  the 
Bois  de  Guenes,  a  civilian  came  out  on  the  other. 
Neither  soldier  nor  civilian  was  of  interest  to  a 
people  rejoicing  in  the  news  that  the  French  had 
captured  that  morning  the  whole  line  of  the  Dent 
de  la  Ponselle. 

From  the  Bois  de  Guenes  I  walked  to  the  junc 
tion  with  the  main  line  at  St.-Pierre,  and  there 
the  trail  of  my  memories  is  lost.  I  have  no  recol 
lection  of  taking  the  name  of  Jasper  Soames, 
though  I  can  see  easily  enough  why  I  should  have 
done  it.  When  it  became  necessary  to  call  my 
self  something  I  seized  the  first  bit  of  wreckage 
from  the  past  that  my  mind  could  catch  hold  of. 
The  name  was  there  as  a  name,  even  when  all  its 
associations  had  disappeared  beneath  the  waves 
that  had  swept  over  me. 

Of  the  interval  between  taking  the  train  at  St.- 
Pierre,  probably  to  go  southward  toward  Bor 
deaux,  and  my  waking  on  board  the  Auvergne 
I  have  as  yet  only  such  fragments  of  memory  as 
one  retains  of  dreams.  Even  that  which  stands 
out  is  shadowy,  uncertain,  evanescent.  It  is 
without  context.  No  one  fragment  is  substan 
tial  enough  for  me  to  be  sure  of  it  as  pertaining 
to  a  fact. 

Facts  began  for  me  anew  at  the  instant  when 
I  opened  my  eyes  in  the  cabin  and  saw  Drink- 
water  shaving. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?" 

Wolf  did  not  make  this  observation  till  some 
235 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

minutes  after  I  had  ceased.  During  the  interval 
of  silence,  as  during  the  half-hour  of  my  narrative, 
his  grin  played  on  me  like  a  searchlight.  As  I 
have  already  said,  I  didn't  resent  this  because  of 
knowing  his  smile  to  be  a  kind  of  nervous  rictus  of 
the  lips  which  he  was  no  longer  able  to  control; 
and  yet  the  silly  comment  nettled  me. 

"What's  funny  about  it?"  I  asked,  coldly. 

"Oh,  nothing!     Just — just  the  whole  thing." 

"If  you  think  the  whole  thing's  funny — " 

"Oh  no,  not  in  that  sense,  not  comic." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  Nothing — nothing !    I  was  only  wondering— 

But  I  didn't  find  out  what  Wolf  was  wondering 
till  later.  In  the  mean  while  I  gave  him  a  brief 
account  of  my  doings  in  New  York,  leading  up 
to  the  day  when  Alice  Mountney  had  "discov 
ered"  me.  When  I  came  to  that  he  rose,  eying 
me  all  over  as  he  had  done  at  first. 

"That's  a  queer  kind  of  rig — "  he  began,  with 
his  everlasting  jocularity. 

"It's  the  kind  of  rig  I've  been  wearing,"  I  re 
plied,  sharply.  "Good  enough  for  its  purpose. 
I  shall  get  something  else  as  soon  as  I've  had  time 
to  go  to  the  tailor." 

"I'd  go  soon,"  was  his  only  remark,  as  he  left 
me  to  repeat  to  Vio  what  he  could  remember  of 
my  tale. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  after  lunch  before  I  was  summoned  to 
the  telephone,  to  hear  Wolf's  voice  at  the 
other  end.  Vio  would  see  me  at  three.  I  was 
to  understand  that  my  being  alive  had  been  a 
shock  to  her,  and  therefore  all  this  ceremonial! 

At  a  quarter  to  three  I  started  to  walk  across 
the  Common  to  the  old  Soames  house  on  Beacon 
Hill.  It  occurred  to  me  then  that  if  for  the  living 
it  is  a  strange  sensation  when  the  dead  come  back, 
for  the  dead  it  is  a  stranger  sensation  still.  Not 
till  I  set  out  on  this  errand  had  I  understood  how 
dead  I  had  been.  I  had  been  dead  and  buried; 
I  had  been  mourned  for  and  forgotten;  Vio  had 
finished  her  grieving  and  returned  to  every-day 
life.  For  anything  I  knew,  she  might  be  con 
templating  remarriage.  Alice  Mountney  had 
said  that  when  people  were  dead  it  was  better  for 
them  to  stay  dead;  and  I  began  to  fear  it  was. 

Beacon  Hill,  as  I  drew  near  it,  struck  me  as  an 
illustration  of  that  changing  of  the  old  order  of 
which  all  the  inner  springs  seemed  to  be  within 
myself.  It  was  no  longer  the  Beacon  Hill  of  my 
boyhood.  It  was  not  even  the  Beacon  Hill  of  the 
year  when  I  went  away.  To  those  who  had 

237 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

stayed  on  the  spot  and  watched  the  transforma 
tion  taking  place  little  difference  might  be  appar 
ent;  but  to  me,  with  my  newly  awakened  facul 
ties,  it  was  like  coming  back  in  autumn  to  a  gar 
den  visited  in  spring.  The  historic  State  House 
had  deployed  a  pair  of  huge  white  wings,  to  make 
room  for  which  familiar  landmarks  round  about 
it  had  for  the  most  part  disappeared.  All  down 
the  slope  toward  the  level  land  the  Georgian  and 
Early  Victorian  mansions  were  turning  into  shops 
and  clubs.  The  old  Soames  house,  with  occa 
sional  panes  of  purple  glass  in  otherwise  normal 
windows,  was  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  bachelors' 
chambers  and  on  the  other  by  an  antique-shop. 
One  of  the  few  old  houses  in  Boston  still  in  the 
hands  of  people  connected  with  the  original 
owners,  it  had  been  purchased  by  Vio's  father 
from  the  heirs  of  his  mother's  family,  while  Vio's 
trustees  had  in  their  turn  bought  out  Wolf's 
share  in  it.  Four-square,  red,  with  a  fine  white 
Doric  portico  over  which  a  luxuriant  wistaria 
trained,  it  suggested,  as  I  approached  it  now,  old 
furniture,  old  books,  old  pictures,  old  wines,  old 
friendships,  and  all  the  easy,  well-ordered  life 
out  of  which  we  were  called  by  the  pistol-shot 
of  Sarajevo. 

My  nervousness  in  crossing  the  street  and  ring 
ing  the  door-bell  was  augmented  by  that  sense, 
from  which  I  was  never  free,  of  being  guilty  of  a 
stupidity  so  glaring  as  almost  to  amount  to  crime. 
No  ex-convict  returning  from  the  penitentiary 
could  have  had  a  more  hangdog  conviction  of 

238 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

coming  back  to  where  he  was  no  longer  wanted 
than  I  in  wiping  my  cheap  boots  on  Vio's  hand 
some  door-mat.  If  I  found  any  solace  in  the 
moments  of  waiting  for  an  answer  to  my  ring  it 
was  in  noticing  that  the  doorway  needed  paint 
and  that  nothing  in  the  approach  to  the  house 
was  quite  so  spick  and  span  as  formerly.  I  call 
this  a  solace  only  because  it  helped  to  bring  Vio 
nearer  me  by  making  her  less  supremely  mistress 
than  she  used  to  be  of  everything  best  in  the  world. 

I  noticed  the  same  thing  when  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  cheery  English  man-servant  of  sixty- 
odd,  who  was  too  gaily  captain  of  his  soul  to  be 
the  perfect  butler  of  the  old  regime. 

"Couldn't  see  you,"  was  his  offhand  response, 
when  I  had  asked  for  Mrs.  Harrowby. 

"I  think  she'll  see  me." 

"No,  myte,  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  She's  kind 
o'  expectin'  of  'er  'usband  like.  Excuse  me." 

The  politeness  was  called  forth  by  his  shutting 
the  door  in  my  face,  compelling  me  to  speak 
plainly. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Harrowby's  husband." 

The  absurdities  in  my  situation  were  drama 
tized  in  the  expressions  that  ran  successively  over 
the  man's  face.  Amazement  having  followed 
on  incredulity,  apology  followed  on  amazement. 
As  I  was  still  too  near  to  Pelly,  Bridget,  and  the 
Finn  to  separate  myself  from  the  servants'  hall, 
my  sympathy  was  with  him. 

"That's  all  right,  old  chap,"  I  found  myself 
saying,  with  a  hand  on  the  astonished  henchman's 

239 


THE  THREAD  OF   FLAME 

shoulder.     " Just  tell  Mrs.  Harrowby  I'm  here. 
She'll  find  me  in  the  library." 

It  was  purely  to  convince  Boosey,  that  was  his 
name,  of  my  right  to  enter  that  I  tossed  my  hat 
on  the  hat-rack  peg  and  walked  to  the  coat-closet 
with  my  overcoat.  With  the  same  air  of  author 
ity  I  marched  into  the  long,  dim  library,  where  my 
legs  began  to  tremble  under  me  and  my  head  to 
swim. 

Perhaps  because  I  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
think  of  this  room  in  particular,  I  experienced 
my  first  sensation  of  difficulty  or  unreality  in  get 
ting  back  the  old  conceptions.  It  was  not  alone 
my  head  that  swam,  but  the  room.  If  you  imag 
ine  yourself  sailing  through  a  fog  and  drawing  an 
approaching  ship  out  of  the  bank  by  sheer  mental 
effort  of  your  own,  you  will  understand  what  I 
mean.  In  ordinary  conditions  you  have  only  to 
watch  the  ship  making  itself  more  and  more  dis 
tinct;  in  my  case  the  ship  did  nothing.  It  was 
as  if  I  had  to  build  it  plank  by  plank  and  sail  by 
sail  in  order  to  see  it  at  all. 

I  could  do  this,  even  if  I  did  it  painfully.  The 
room  came  into  being,  mistily,  tremblingly,  while 
my  head  ached  with  the  effort.  Taking  a  few 
steps  here,  there,  gazing  about  me  at  haphazard, 
the  remembered  objects  appeared  one  by  one — 
the  desks,  the  arm-chairs,  the  rows  of  books,  the 
portraits,  the  fireplace,  in  which  there  was  a  slum 
bering  fire.  Over  the  mantelpiece  hung  Zuloaga's 
portrait  of  Vio,  which  always  raised  discussion 
wherever  it  was  exhibited. 

240 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  had  reached  this  point  at  the  end  of  the  room 
when  a  low  stifled  cry  came  from  the  corner  by 
the  fire. 

"Oh,  Billy,  is  this  you?" 

Vio  had  been  sitting  there  watching  me.  Had 
I  been  able  instantly  to  reconstruct  the  room  I 
should  have  seen  her  instantly;  but  all  these  min 
utes  she  had  been  observing  me,  with  that  queer, 
half-choked  cry  as  the  result. 

I  cannot  tell  you  now  how  long  we  stared  at 
each  other,  she  in  the  arm-chair,  I  on  the  hearth 
rug;  but  once  more  the  new  brain-cells  acted  slug 
gishly  I  knew  that  this  slender,  picturesque 
creature,  swathed  in  soft  black  satin,  with  a  little 
white  about  the  open  throat  line,  was  Vip,  and 
that  Vio  was  my  wife.  But  I  knew  it  as  something 
remembered,  not  as  an  existing  fact.  I  knew  it  as 
a  ghost  might  know  that  another  ghost  had  mar 
ried  him,  and  that  they  had  once  lived  intimately 
side  by  side. 

You  must  not  think  from  this  that  there  was  no 
emotion.  There  was  tremendous  emotion,  only 
it  was  not  the  emotion  of  love  after  long  separa 
tion.  If  it  was  that  there  were  too  many  elements 
in  it  to  allow  pent-up  passion  the  immediate  right 
of  way.  Pent-up  passion  was  stemmed  by  the 
realization  of  what  my  coming  back  must  mean 
to  the  woman  before  me.  For  her  I  had  been 
three  years  in  my  grave.  As  Alice  Mountney 
had  put  it,  she  had  been  in  mourning  for  me — 
and  out  again.  It  was  the  out  again  that  created 
this  thickened  atmosphere  between  her  and  me. 
16  241 


TH£  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

What  had  been  all  over,  finished  and  done  with 
she  had  to  begin  again. 

And  I  had  not  come  back  to  her  as  I  had  gone 
away.  I  had  come  back — entirely  to  the  out 
ward  eye  and  somewhat  in  my  heart — not  as  the 
smart  young  fellow  of  Lydia  Blair's  recollection, 
but  as  a  working-man.  The  metamorphosis  ren 
dered  me  in  some  ways  more  akin  to  Boosey  the 
butler  than  to  my  former  self.  I  had  acquired 
an  art  that  made  it  possible  for  me  to  go  into  the 
servants'  sitting-room  and  be  at  home  in  the 
company  I  should  find  there.  The  people  in  the 
front  of  the  house  had  to  some  extent  become  to 
me  as  the  Olympian  gods  at  Creed  &  Creed's, 
exalted  beings  with  whom  I  had  little  to  do  out 
side  the  necessities  of  work  and  pay.  This  change 
in  me  was  more  than  superficial;  and  whatever 
it  was  Vio  saw  it.  For  her  the  meeting  was 
harder  than  for  me;  and  for  me  it  was  like  a 
backward  revolution  of  the  years. 

But  after  she  had  clung  to  me  and  cried  a  little, 
the  tensity  was  broken.  As  I  analyze  now,  I  see 
the  impulse  that  urged  us  into  each  other's  arms 
as  one  of  memory.  For  her,  I  was  the  man  who 
had  been,  as  she  was  the  woman  who  had  been, 
for  me.  She,  however,  had  the  help  of  pity, 
while  I  was  humble  and  overawed. 
•  It  was  one  of  those  moments  when  so  many 
things  begin  again  that  it  is  hard  to  seize  on  any. 
The  simplest  being  the  easiest,  she  said,  after  hav 
ing  detached  herself  from  me  and  got  back  some 
measure  of  her  self-control: 

242 


All  these  minutes  she  had  been  observing  me,  with  that 
<**•  queer,  half-choked  cry  as  the  result:  "Oh,  Billy,  is 
this  you?" 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  about  your  things  ?  Have  you  brought 
them?" 

"The  little  I  have  is  at  the  hotel." 

Both  question  and  answer  came  out  absently 
while  we  looked  at  each  other  with  a  new  kind  of 
inspection.  The  first  had  been  of  the  self  within; 
now  it  was  of  the  outer  self.  I  should  have 
shrunk  from  the  way  in  which  her  eyes  traveled 
over  me  had  not  my  whole  mind  gone  into  the 
examination  I  was  making. 

Yes;  she  had  changed,  though  I  cannot  say 
that  it  was  in  the  way  of  looking  older.  Rather 
she  had  grown  to  resemble  Zuloaga's  portrait  of 
her,  which  we  had  always  considered  too  theatri 
cal.  Zuloaga  had  emphasized  all  her  most  start 
ling  traits — her  slenderness,  sinuousity,  and  fan 
tastic  grace — her  immense  black  eyes,  of  which 
he  alone  of  all  the  men  who  had  painted  her  had 
caught  the  fire  that  had  been  compared  to  that 
of  the  black  opal — the  long,  narrow  face  that  was 
like  Wolf's,  except  for  being  mysterious  and  baf 
fling — the  mouth,  haunted  by  memories  that 
might  have  survived  from  another  incarnation, 
since  there  had  been  nothing  in  her  present  life 
to  correspond  to  them.  You  could  speak  of  her 
as  being  beautiful  only  in  the  sense  of  being 
strange,  with  an  appeal  less  to  the  eye  than  to  the 
imagination.  More  akin  to  fire  than  to  flesh,  she 
was  closer  to  spirit  than  to  fire.  It  might  have 
been  a  perverse,  tortured  spirit,  but  it  was  far 
from  the  merely  animal.  Discriminating  people 
called  it  her  salvation  to  have  married  a  humdrum 

243 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

chap  like  me,  since,  with  a  man  of  more  tempera 
ment,  she  would  have  clashed  too  outrageously. 
High-handed  and  intense,  she  needed  some  one 
seemingly  to  yield  to  her  caprices,  correcting 
them  under  the  guise  of  giving  in. 

Like  others  of  tempestuous  nature,  when  she 
was  gentle  her  gentleness  was  heavenly.  She 
was  gentle  in  that  way  now. 

"Sit  down,  Billy,  and  let  me  look  at  you. 
Why  didn't  you  bring  your  things?" 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  wanted  me  to  do  that, 
or  that — that  we  were  to — to  begin  again/* 

"Of  course  we  shall  begin  again.  What  made 
you  think  we  shouldn't?" 

"I  didn't  think  so.     I  simply  didn't  know." 

"Did  Alice  Mountney,  or  Wolf,  tell  you  any 
thing?" 

There  was  a  curious  significance  in  the  tone, 
but  I  let  it  pass. 

"Only  that  you'd — you'd  given  me  up." 

"What  else  could  I  do?" 

We  were  sitting  half  turned  toward  each  other 
on  one  of  the  library  sofas,  and  I  seized  both  her 
hands. 

"But  now  that  I'm  back,  Vio,  are  you — are 
you — glad  ?" 

Though  she  allowed  her  hands  to  remain  in 
mine  there  was  a  flash  of  the  black-opal  fire. 

"It's  not  so  simple  as  being  glad,  Billy.  The 
word  isn't  relevant." 

"Relevant  to  what?" 

"I  mean  that  you  can't  sum  up  such  a  situation 

24J. 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

as  this  by  being  either  glad  or  sorry.     We've  other 
things  to  consider." 

"But  surely  that  comes  first/' 

"Neither  first  nor  second.  The  only  question 
we've  got  to  ask  for  the  minute  is  what  we're  to 
do." 

"But  I  thought  that  was  settled — that  you 
wanted  me  to  come  back." 

"It's  settled  in  the  way  that  getting  up  in  the 
morning  is  settled;  but  that  doesn't  tell  you  the 
duties  of  the  day." 

"I  suppose  one  can  only  meet  the  duties  of  the 
day  by  going  on  and  seeing  what  they  are." 

"Exactly;  and  isn't  that  our  first  considera 
tion — the  going  on?  It  doesn't  matter  whether 
we're  glad  or  sorry,  since  we  mean  to  go  on,  or 
try  to  go  on — anyhow." 

Releasing  her  hands  I  dropped  back  into  my 
own  corner  of  the  sofa,  scanning  the  refined  fea 
tures  more  at  my  ease,  for  the  reason  that  her 
face  was  slightly  averted  and  her  eyes  turned  to 
the  floor. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  on,  Vio,  if — " 

"I've  thought  everything  over,"  she  declared 
in  her  imperious  way,  "and  made  up  my  mind 
that  it  was  the  only  thing  for  me  to  do." 

"Then  you  had  thought  that — that  perhaps 
you — you  couldn't." 

She  nodded  slowly,  without  looking  up. 

"  You'd  made  other — plans." 

"It  wasn't  that  so  much;  it  was — it  was  think 
ing  of  you." 

245 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Thinking  of  me — from  what  point  or  view?" 

"From  the  point  of  view  of — of  what  you've 
done."  She  glanced  at  me  now,  quickly,  fur 
tively,  as  if  trying  to  spare  n>e  the  pain  of  scru 
tiny.  "Oh,  Billy,  I'm  so  sorry  for — for  my  share 
in  it." 

"And  what  do  you  take  your  share  to  be?" 

"The  share  of  responsibility.  When  I  urged 
you  to  go — " 

"As  it  happened,  I  should  have  gone  anyhow. 
When  this  country  had  entered  the  war  I  should 
have  been  under  the  same  obligation  as  any  other 
man." 

"That  would  have  been  different.  When  our 
men  were  taken  there  was  discrimination.  Each 
was  selected  for  what  he  was  best  fitted  to  do. 
A  great  deal  of  pains  was  given  to  that,  and  I 
can't  tell  you  how  I  suffered  when  I  saw  that  if 
I'd  only  left  you  alone  you  could  have  contributed 
the  thing  you  knew  most  about.  That's  why  I 
feel  so  strongly  that,  now  you've  come  back — 
even  in  this  sort  of  disguise — " 

"I'm  not  in  disguise,  Vio.  The  way  you  see 
me—" 

The  motion  of  her  long,  slender  hand  was  partly 
of  appeal  and  partly  of  dismissal. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  about  that,  Billy.  If 
we're  to  begin  again  there  are  things  we  mustn't 
talk  about.  Since  you've  done  this  extraordi 
nary  thing,  and  I  may  be  said  to  have  driven  you 
into  it,  I  want  to  stand  by  you.  Isn't  that 
enough  ?" 

246 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

There  was  so  much  in  this  little  speech  that  I 
couldn't  do  it  justice  at  once.  All  I  found  my 
self  able  to  say  was: 

"Tell  me,  Vio:  Is  the  extraordinary  thing  my 
staying  away — or  my  coming  back?" 

Again  there  was  that  pleading,  commanding 
gesture. 

"Oh,  Billy,  don't.  I'm  willing  to  try  to  pick 
up  the  past;  but  it  must  be  the  past,  not  what's 
happened  in  the  mean  time."  She  rose  with  that 
supple  grace  which  suggested  the  Zuloaga  pose. 
"  Go  back  to  the  hotel  and  get  your  things.  I — I 
can't  bear  to  see  you  looking  as  you  are.  When 
you're  more  like  yourself — " 

I  tried  to  smile,  but  I  know  the  effort  was  no 
more  than  a  twisted  quivering. 

"You'll  have  to  see  me  looking  as  I  am  for  a 
few  days  yet,  Vio.  My  kit  doesn't  offer  me  much 
variety." 

"Oh,  well—!" 

She  accepted  this  as  part  of  the  inevitable 
strangeness  in  which  she  had  become  enveloped, 
making  silent,  desperate  concessions.  Because 
of  this  mood  I  was  tempted  to  ask  for  five  min 
utes'  grace  in  order  to  look  over  the  old  house. 

"You'll  find  things  rather  run  down,"  she  said, 
indifferently.  "I've  no  good  servants  any  more. 
They  said  that  when  the  war  was  over  it  would 
be  easier  to  get  them;  but  it's  a  month  now  since 
the  armistice  was  signed,  and  it's  just  as  bad  as 


ever." 


From  that  point  of  view,  it  will  probably  be 
247 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

worse,"  I  remarked,  when  about  to  pass  from  the 
library  into  the  hall.  "The  world  isn't  going 
back  to  what  it  was  before  the  war.  You  can't 
stop  an  avalanche  once  it  has  begun  to  slide." 

She  watched  me  from  where  she  stood  before 
the  fire,  reproducing  almost  exactly  the  attitude 
of  the  fascinating  woman  overhead. 

"Does  that  mean  that  you've  come  back  a 
revolutionist,  Billy?  as  well  as  everything  else?" 

"N-no;  I  haven't  come  back  anything  in  par 
ticular.  I'm  just  like  you  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  a  snowflake  in  the  avalanche.  I  suppose 
I  shall  go  tumbling  with  the  mass." 

A  sense  of  something  outlived  came  to  me  as 
I  roamed  through  the  house  which  Vio  allowed 
me  to  visit  by  myself.  After  two  years  spent  in 
a  squint-eyed  room  of  which  the  only  decoration 
was  three  painted  fungi  this  mellow  beauty  stirred 
me  to  a  vague  irritation.  It  was  not  a  real  dwell 
ing  for  real  people  in  the  real  world  as  the  real 
world  had  become.  It  was  too  rich  and  soft  and 
long  established  in  its  place.  Three  or  four  gen 
erations  of  Soameses  and  Torrances  had  stored 
its  rooms  with  tapestries,  portraits,  old  porce 
lains,  and  mahoganies;  and  for  America  that  is 
much. 

Over  the  landing  where  the  stairway  turned 
hung  the  famous  Copley  of  Jasper  Soames.  For 
a  good  two  minutes  he  and  I  faced  each  other  in 
unspeakable  communion.  There  was  nothing  be 
tween  us  but  this  stairway  acquaintance,  formed 
during  the  three  years  Vio  and  I  had  lived  to- 

248 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

gether;  and  yet  somehow  his  being  had  stamped 
itself  into  mine. 

On  the  floors  above  there  was  the  same  well- 
chosen  abundance  of  everything,  sufficiently 
toned  down  by  use  and  time  to  merit  the  word 
shabby.  That  was  the  note  that  struck  me  first, 
and  surprised  me.  Vio  had  never  been  what  is 
commonly  known  as  a  good  housekeeper;  but 
she  had  commanded  and  been  obeyed.  What 
the  house  betrayed  now  was  a  diminution  of  the 
power  of  command.  Doubtless  money  didn't  go 
as  far  as  it  used  to;  and  there  was  a  new  spirit  in 
the  world  as  to  taking  orders.  I  thought  again 
of  the  garden  revisited  in  autumn.  The  old  house 
might  be  said  to  have  fulfilled  its  long  mission, 
and  to  be  ready  to  pass  away  with  the  age  of 
which  it  was  a  type. 

To  go  into  my  own  room  and  find  it  empty 
and  swept  of  every  trace  of  my  habitation  would 
have  been  a  stranger  experience  than  it  was  if 
every  experience  that  day  had  not  been  strange. 
I  looked  into  the  wardrobes;  I  pulled  open  the 
drawers.  There  was  not  a  garment,  not  a  scrap 
of  paper  to  indicate  that  I  had  ^ver  been  alive. 
Not  till  I  saw  this  did  I  realize  the  completeness 
with  which  Vio  had  buried  me. 

And  not  till  I  saw  this  did  I  realize  that  Vio 
herself  was  up  against  the  first  big  struggle  of  her 
life.  She  had  never  hitherto  faced  what  might 
be  called  a  moral  situation.  Her  history  had 
been  that  of  any  other  well-off  girl  in  a  city  like 
Boston,  where  money  and  position  entitled  her 

249 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

to  whatever  was  best  in  the  small  realm.  Amer 
ican  civilization,  like  that  of  the  Italy  of  the  Mid 
dle  Ages,  being  civic  and  not  national,  the  boun 
daries  of  Boston,  with  its  suburbs  and  seaside 
resorts,  had  formed  the  limits  of  Vio's  horizon. 
True,  she  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  Europe 
— but  always  as  a  Bostonian.  She  had  made 
periodical  visits  to  Newport,  Bar  Harbor,  Palm 
Beach,  and  White  Sulphur  Springs — but  always 
as  a  Bostonian.  Once  she  had  traveled  as  far  on 
the  American  continent  as  California — but  still 
as  a  Bostonian. 

Boston  sufficed  for  Vio,  seeing  that  it  was 
big  enough  to  give  her  variety,  and  swell  enough 
to  permit  her  to  shine  with  little  competition. 
Competition  irked  her,  for  the  reason  that  she 
despised  taking  trouble.  With  the  exception  of 
a  toilet  exact  to  the  last  detail  of  refinement, 
her  life  was  always  at  loose  ends.  She  rarely 
answered  letters;  she  rarely  returned  calls;  she 
never  kept  accounts;  if  she  began  a  book  she 
didn't  finish  it.  Adoring  little  Bobby  during  the 
months  of  his  brief  life,  she  found  the  necessities 
of  motherhood  unbearable.  That  she  was  as  a 
rule  picturesquely  unhappy  was  due  to  the  fact 
of  having  nothing  on  which  to  whet  her  spiritual 
mettle.  Like  a  motor  working  while  the  motor 
car  stands  still,  she  churned  herself  into  action 
that  got  nowhere  as  a  result. 

But  now  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was 
face  to  face  with  a  great,  big  personal  problem. 
How  big  and  great  the  problem  was  I  didn't  at 

250 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  time  understand.  All  I  could  see  was  that 
she  was  meeting  her  baptism  of  fire,  and  that  I 
was  the  means  of  the  ministration. 

Pushing  open  the  door  between  her  room  and 
mine  I  received  again  the  impression  of  almost 
awesome  privilege  I  had  got  on  our  return  from 
our  honeymoon.  I  had  never  been  at  my  ease 
in  this  room;  it  was  Vio's  sanctuary,  her  fastness. 
It  was  a  Soame*s  and  Torrance  sanctuary  and 
fastness,  and  to  it  I  had  only  been  admitted,  not 
given  its  freedom  as  a  right.  Possibly  the  feeling 
that  always  came  to  me  on  crossing  its  threshold, 
that  I  stepped  out  of  my  own  domain,  betokened 
the  missing  strand  in  the  tie  that  had  bound  Vio 
and  me  together. 

It  had  been  a  trial  to  me  that  she  should  be  so 
much  better  off  than  I.  Not  only  did  it  leave 
the  less  for  me  to  do  for  her,  but  it  created  in  her 
a  spirit  of  detachment  against  which  I  chafed  in 
vain.  Out  of  the  common  fund  of  our  marriage 
she  made  large  reserves  of  herself,  as  she  might 
have  made  reserves — which  she  did  not — of  her 
income.  Our  beings  were  allied,  but  they  were 
not  fused.  For  fusion  she  had  too  much  that  she 
prized  to  give  away.  In  such  quantity  as  I  could 
give  she  made  return  to  me;  but  having  so  much 
more  than  I  to  give,  her  reserves  became  conspic 
uous.  Of  what  she  withheld  this  room  was  the 
symbol.  It  was  never  my  room.  My  comings 
and  goings  there  had  been  made  with  a  kind  of 
reverence,  as  if  the  place  were  a  shrine. 

The  only  abiding  note  of  my  personality  had 
251 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

been  my  photograph  at  the  head  of  Vio's  bed. 
There  was  a  photograph  there  now,  but  I  saw  that 
the  frame  was  different.  Mine  had  been  in  a 
silver  frame;  this  was  in  red-brown  leather.  If 
it  was  still  mine  .  .  . 

But  it  was  not  mine.  It  was  that  of  a  colonel 
in  an  American  uniform,  wearing  British  and 
French  decorations.  Big,  portly,  handsome, 
bluff,  with  an  empty  left  sleeve,  he  revealed  him 
self  as  a  hero.  He  was  a  hero,  while  I  ...  It 
occurred  to  me  that  death  was  not  the  only  means 
of  giving  Vio  her  freedom,  and  that  I  ought  to 
tell  her  so. 

To  do  that  I  was  making  my  way  down-stairs 
with  the  words  framing  themselves  on  my  lips. 

"Vio,"  I  meant  to  say,  "if  you  don't  want  me 
back,  if  anything  has  happened  to  make  it  best 
for  me  to  go  away  again  forever,  you've  only  to 
say  the  word  and  I'll  do  it." 

But  while  I  was  still  descending  she  swept  into 
the  hall.  Her  movements  were  always  rapid, 
with  a  careless,  commanding  ease.  She  was  once 
more  the  Zuloaga  woman  all  on  fire  within. 

"How  long  do  you  think  it  will  be,  Billy,  before 
your  tailor  can  make  you  look  as  you  ought  to?" 

I  paused  where  I  was,  some  three  steps  above 
her.  "It  may  hardly  be  worth  while  to  consider 
that,  Vio—"' 

"Oh,  but  it  is,"  she  interrupted.  "If  we're 
going  to  put  this  thing  through  we  must  do  it  with 
some  dash.  That's  essential." 

"Why— why  the  dash?" 
252 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Because  there's  no  other  way  of  doing  it. 
Don't  you  see?  If  you  just  come  in  by  the 
back  door — "  She  left  this  sentiment  to  con 
tinue  in  her  own  way.  "Alice  Mountney  is 
going  to  give  a  big  dinner  and  invite  all  your 
old  friends." 

My  heart  sank. 

"Is  that  necessary?" 

"Of  course  it's  necessary.  It  isn't  a  matter  of 
preference.  As  far  as  that  goes  it  will  be  as  hard 
for  me  as  for  you.  If  I  took  my  own  way  I  should 
never — "  Once  more  she  left  me  to  divine  her 
thought  while  she  added,  firmly:  "It  has  simply 
got  to  be  done.  We  must  make  people  think — " 

"What?"  I  challenged,  when  she  paused,  not 
apparently  from  lack  of  words  but  from  fear  of 
using  them.  A  suspicion  impelled  me  to  say  in 
addition,  "How  much  did  Wolf  repeat  to  you  of 
the  story  I  told  him?" 

Her  answer  was  made  with  the  storm  in  the 
eyes  that  was  always  my  warning  of  danger. 

"As  much  as  I'd  let  him.  I  didn't  want  to 
hear  any  more.  I  never  shall.  That  part  of  it 
is  closed.  I've  told  you  already  that  I  accept  the 
responsibility,  and  I  do.  You  mayn't  think  it, 
but  I  have  a  conscience  of  a  kind;  and  I  know 
that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  you  wouldn't  have 
done  this  thing;  and  so —  But  there  we  are  again. 
There  we  shall  always  be  if  we  allow  ourselves  to 
discuss  it.  You're  my  husband,  Billy;  I'm  your 
wife.  We  can't  get  away  from  that,  whatever 
has  happened — " 

253 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"We  could  get  away  from  it,  if  you  preferred." 

"What  I  prefer,"  she  declared,  with  her  old- 
time  hauteur,  "is  what  I'm  asking  you  to  do. 
If  I  didn't  prefer  it  I  shouldn't  ask  for  it.  Go 
back  to  the  hotel  and  get  your  things.  Go  to 
the  tailor  and  get  more.  Your  room  is  waiting 
for  you.  It  will  be  the  next  room  to  mine,  just 
as  before  with  only  the  door — " 

" The  closed  door,  Vio?" 

"Between  us,"  she  finished,  ignoring  my  ques 
tion.  "If  other  things  arrange  themselves  we 
can — we  can  reopen  it — in  time." 

So  we  left  it,  since  it  was  useless  to  go  on.  That 
she  should  consider  my  mental  lapse  so  terrible 
a  disgrace  was  a  surprise  to  me;  but  as  I  so  con 
sidered  it  myself  I  could  not  blame  another  for 
taking  the  same  point  of  view.  After  all,  a  man 
should  show  a  man's  nerve.  Thousands,  mill 
ions  of  men,  had  shown  it  to  the  limit  and  be 
yond.  I  hadn't;  that  was  all  that  could  be  said 
about  it.  How  could  Vio,  how  could  any  one 
else,  regard  me  as  other  than  abnormal? 

As  she  was  making  so  brave  an  attempt  to  put 
all  this  behind  her,  it  became  my  duty  to  help 
her.  This  I  could  do  most  easily  by  deflecting 
the  conversation  to  the  large  family  connection, 
as  to  which  I  was  without  news.  She  gave  me 
this  news  as  we  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway, 
or  while  I  got  ready  to  go  out  again. 

It  was  a  relief  to  learn  that  none  of  my  brothers 
or  sisters  was  in  Boston.  George,  who  was  older 
than  myself,  was  on  General  Pershing's  staff,  and 

254 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

had  just  been  heard  of  from  Luxembourg.  Dan, 
my  junior,  had  the  rank  of  lieutenant-commander 
and  was  somewhere  in  European  waters.  Tom 
Cantley,  who  had  married  my  sister  Minna,  was 
working  on  the  War  Trade  Board  in  Washington, 
and  he  and  Minna  had  a  house  there.  Their  eldest 
boy,  Harrowby,  had  been  killed  at  Chateau- 
Thierry,  but  as  far  as  any  one  ever  saw  Minna 
hadn't  shed  a  tear.  Ernestine,  my  unmarried 
sister,  being  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Flag  Rais 
ing  League,  had  patriotic  duties  which  took  her 
all  over  the  United  States.  Her  last  letter  had 
been  from  Oklahoma  or  Spokane,  Vio  was  not 
sure  which,  but  it  was  "one  of  those  places  out 
there."  At  any  rate,  they  were  all  a  credit  to  a 
name  the  traditions  of  which  I  alone  hadn't  had 
the  spirit  to  live  up  to.  Vio  didn't  say  this,  of 
course;  but  it  was  the  inference. 

It  was  the  inference,  too,  with  regard  to  a  host 
of  cousins  of  the  first,  second,  and  third  degrees, 
by  blood  and  by  marriage,  who  would  have  made 
a  small  army  in  themselves.  Some  were  Vio's 
kin,  and  some  were  mine;  some  by  the  chances  of 
Boston  intermarriage  were  related  to  us  both. 
Not  one  of  them  but  had  been  modestly  heroic, 
the  women  not  less  than  the  men.  Some  had 
given  their  lives,  some  their  limbs  or  eyesight;  all, 
their  time  and  money.  Even  Wolf  and  Vio  had 
subscribed  to  funds  till  reduced  to  what  they  con 
sidered  indigence.  It  was  a  distinguished  clan; 
and  I  its  one  pitiable  member. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GOING  back  to  the  hotel,  I  had  my  first  pang 
of  regret  for  having  waked  up  on  that  mid 
night  at  Bourg-la-Comtesse.  It  was  the  same 
reflection;  the  dead  were  so  much  wiser  in  stay 
ing  dead.  I  guessed  that  during  the  weeks  when 
I  was  missing  Vio  had  mourned  for  me  with  a 
grief  into  which  a  new  element  had  come  when  my 
clothes  were  found  on  the  bank  of  the  Padrille. 
That  was  a  mistake,  that  my  clothes  should  be 
found  there.  A  missing  man  should  be  traced 
to  a  prison  or  a  hospital,  or  remain  gloriously 
missing.  He  should  have  no  interval  of  safety 
in  which  to  go  in  bathing,  a  hundred  miles  from 
the  spot  on  which  he  had  last  been  seen  alive,  not 
even  to  be  drowned.  There  was  a  mystery  in 
that  which  might  easily  become  a  flaw  in  a  sol 
dier's  record,  and  which  to  a  woman  as  proud  as 
Vio  would  be  equivalent  to  dishonor.  That  there 
should  be  a  question  of  the  kind  with  regard  to 
her  own  husband  .  .  . 

So  I  began  to  do  justice  to  the  courage  she  dis 
played.  Rising  to  the  occasion  in  a  way  I  could 
only  call  magnificent,  she  sank  herself,  her 
opinions,  and  her  plans — I  called  them  plans  to 

256 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

avoid  a  more  definite  word — to  meet  the  impera 
tive  in  the  situation.  What  lay  in  the  back  of 
her  mind  I  didn't  dare  inquire,  notwithstanding 
the  signs  that  betrayed  her. 

And  yet  the  more  splendid  her  gesture  the 
deeper  my  humility  at  having  to  call  it  forth.  It 
made  me  like  a  man,  once  strong  and  active,  re 
duced  to  living  on  the  doles  of  the  compassionate. 
I  could  never  be  independent  again;  I  could  never 
again  have  the  mental  freedom  of  one  as  to  whom 
there  is  nothing  unexplained.  By  a  process  of 
bluff  I  might  carry  the  thing  off;  but  to  that  I 
felt  an  unspeakable  aversion.  It  was  not  that  I 
was  unwilling  to  second  Vio;  it  was  incapacity. 
Having  been  guilty  of  the  indiscretion  of  waking 
at  Bourg-la-Comtesse,  I  began  to  regret  the  long, 
dull,  peaceful  routine  of  Creed  &  Creed's. 

I  do  not  assert  that  these  things  were  as  clear 
in  my  mind  on  that  day  as  they  are  on  this;  but 
they  were  there  confusedly.  Every  impression 
I  received  that  afternoon  was  either  confused  and 
painful  or  strikingly  vivid,  as  to  one  waking  from 
an  anesthetic. 

Of  those  more  vivid  one  in  particular  stands 
out  in  my  recollection. 

Returning  from  the  hotel  with  my  suit-case 
and  bag — the  same  with  which  I  had  landed 
from  the  Auvergne — I  heard  a  man's  voice  in  the 
drawing-room  up-stairs.  The  deep,  soft  tones 
told  me  it  was  not  Wolf's. 

"  Mrs.  'Arrowby  said  as  you  was  to  go  right  up, 
sir,"  Boosey  informed  me,  relieving  me  of  my 
17  257 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

bags.  " I  'ear  as  you  was  a  prisoner  in  Germany, 
sir,"  he  continued,  while  making  his  way  to  the 
coat-closet  with  my  coat.  "That's  why  I  didn't 
know  as  it  'd  be  you  when  you  come  this  afternoon. 
Might  I  ask,  sir,  if  they  throwed  beer  in  your  face, 
or  anything  like  that?" 

With  one  foot  on  the  stairs  I  looked  after  the 
waddling  figure  retreating  down  the  hall. 

"Who  told  you  that  I  was  a  prisoner?" 

"Mr.  Wolf's  man,  sir;  but" — •  I  am  sure  there 
was  a  veiled  taunt  in  what  followed — "but  if  you 
wasn't,  sir,  or  if  it's  a  secret — " 

I  lost  the  rest  as  he  became  engulfed  in  the 
closet,  but  I  had  heard  enough.  Wolf  had  taken 
his  own  way  to  protect  the  honor  of  the  family. 

It  was  not  easy  to  enter  the  drawing-room  and 
face  one  of  Vio's  friends;  but  it  was  the  sort  of 
thing  to  which  I  must  learn  to  steel  myself. 
Moreover,  it  might  be  one  of  my  own  friends 
come  to  welcome  me  back.  Vio  had  informed 
me  that  Wolf  had  taken  steps  to  keep  any  men 
tion  of  my  "discovery"  and  return  out  of  the 
papers;  but  we  were  too  well  known  in  Boston 
not  to  have  the  word  passed  privately.  To  any 
friend's  welcome  there  would  be  unspoken  re 
serves;  but  that  I  must  take  for  granted  and 
become  accustomed  to. 

But,  as  it  happened,  it  was  not  a  friend  of  mine; 
it  was  the  colonel  of  the  photograph,  who  had 
apparently  dropped  in  for  a  cup  of  tea — and 
something  more.  What  that  something  more 
might  be  I  could  only  surmise  from  Vio's  way  of 

258 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

saying,  "Here's  Mr.  Harrowby  now."  They 
had  seemingly  discussed  me,  it  had  seemingly 
been  necessary  for  them  to  discuss  me,  and  taken 
a  definite  attitude  toward  me.  That  my  wife 
should  do  this  with  a  man  who  was  a  stranger  to 
me,  that  the  circumstances  should  be  such  that 
it  was  a  duty  for  them  to  do  it,  was  the  extraordi 
nary  cup  of  gall  given  me  to  drain.  I  drained  it 
while  Vio  went  on,  with  that  ease  which  no  one 
knew  better  than  I  to  be  sustained  on  nerve: 

"Billy,  I  want  you  to  know  Colonel  Stroud. 
He's  just  got  back  from  France,  and  has  been 
explaining  to  me  how  the  Allies  are  to  occupy  the 
Rhineland.  Our  men  are  already  reaching  May- 
ence  and  Coblenz,  and  he  has  heard,  too,  that 
the  President  arrived  this  morning  at  Brest.  I 
suppose  it  will  be  in  the  evening  papers." 

So  we  were  launched  in  talk  that  couldn't  hurt 
any  one;  and  if  my  feelings  were  wounded  it  was 
only  by  drawing  conclusions.  They  were  the 
easier  to  draw  from  the  fact,  as  1  guessed,  that 
Vio  directed  the  talk  in  such  a  way  that  I  could 
read  between  the  lines. 

What  I  gleaned  from  the  give  and  take  of  banal 
ities  that  dealt  on  the  surface  with  the  current 
gossip  of  the  armistice  was  that  Vio  and  her 
colonel  had  been  intimate  before  he  went  to 
France,  and  now  that  he  was  back  with  medals 
and  only  a  right  arm,  the  friendship  had  taken 
the  turn  to  which  such  friendships  are  liable. 
That  he  was  one  of  the  Strouds  of  the  famous 
Stroud  Valley  in  northern  New  York  put  him  into 

259 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  class  with  which  people  like  ourselves  made 
social  alliances.  When  Vio,  in  the  early  days  of 
her  supposed  widowhood,  had  met  him  at  Palm 
Beach  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  their  being 
sympathetic  to  each  other.  How  far  that  sympa 
thy  had  gone  I  could  only  conjecture;  but  it  was 
easy  to  see  it  had  gone  pretty  fan 

As  to  what  did  not  come  so  directly  to  the  sur 
face,  vague  recollections  began  to  form  themselves 
in  my  mind.  I  seemed  to  remember  the  Stroud 
Valley  Strouds  as  a  family  with  a  record.  Of  the 
type  which  in  America  most  nearly  resembles  the 
English  or  Irish  country  gentleman,  they  made 
the  marrying  of  heiresses  and  the  spending  of  the 
money  thus  acquired  almost  a  profession.  Horsy, 
convivial,  and  good-looking,  they  carried  them 
selves  with  the  cheery  liveliness  that  acknowl 
edges  no  account  to  be  given  to  any  one;  and 
when  they  got  into  the  divorce  court,  as  they  did 
somewhat  often,  women  as  well  as  men,  they 
came  out  of  it  with  aplomb.  I  seemed  to  recall 
a  scandal  that  a  few  years  before  had  diverted 
all  the  clubs.  .  .  . 

But  I  couldn't  be  sure  that  this  was  the  man, 
or  of  anything  beyond  the  fact  that  the  central 
figure  of  that  romance  had  been  a  Stroud  Valley 
Stroud.  That  this  particular  instance  of  the 
race  had  had  a  history  was  stamped  all  over  him; 
but  it  was  the  kind  of  history  which  to  a  man  of 
the  world  imparts  fascination.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  he  had  "done  things"  in  many  lines  of 
life.  A  little  the  beau  male  of  the  French  lady 

260 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

novelist,  and  a  little  the  Irish  sporting  squire,  he 
was  possibly  too  conscious  of  his  looks  and  his 
power  of  killing  ladies.  A  bronzed  floridness, 
due  partly  to  the  open  air  and  partly  to  good 
living,  was  thrown  into  striking  relief  by  the 
silver  hair  and  mustache  not  incompatible 
with  relative  youth.  He  couldn't  have  been 
much  over  forty. 

His  reception  to  me  was  as  perfect  as  if  regu 
lated  by  a  protocol  and  rehearsed  to  the  last 
shade.  There  was  nothing  in  it  I  could  complain 
of — and  yet  there  was  everything.  A  gentleman 
ignoring  a  disgraceful  situation  of  which  every 
one  is  conscious  would  have  carried  himself  with 
just  this  air  of  bland  and  courteous  contempt. 

Perhaps  it  was  to  react  against  this  and  to  as 
sert  myself  a  little  that  I  ventured  once  to  cross 
swords  with  him.  We  had  exhausted  the  move 
ments  of  troops  on  the  Rhine,  the  possible  re 
ception  of  the  President  in  Paris,  and  he  had 
given  the  Peace  Conference  six  months  in  which 
to  prepare  the  treaty  for  signature. 

"Then  we  shall  see,"  he  laughed,  in  his  rich, 
velvety  bass. 

He  brought  out  the  statement  so  emphatically 
that  I  was  moved  to  ask: 

"What  shall  we  see?" 

"What  Mrs.  Harrowby  and  I  have  been  talking 
about,  the  end  of  all  this  rot  as  to  the  war  having 
created  a  new  world." 

"That's  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse,  isn't 
it?"  I  asked,  maliciously.  "The  war  didn't 

261 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 


create  the  new  world;    the  new  world  created 
the  war." 

Vio's  exquisite  eyebrows  went  up  a  shade. 

"Does  that  mean  anything?" 

"Only  that  the  volcano  creates  the  explosion; 
not  the  explosion  the  volcano.  Given  all  the 
repressions  and  suppressions  and  injustices,  the 
eruption  had  to  come." 

"The  eruption  had  to  come,"  the  colonel  de 
clared,  hotly, "because  the  Germans  planned  it." 

"Oh,  that  was  only  a  detail." 

"You  might  call  the  whole  war  only  a 
detail—" 

"I  do." 

"I  don't  get  you,"  he  said,  stiffly,  leaning  for 
ward  to  place  an  empty  cup  on  the  table  in  front 
of  Vio. 

In  her  I  read  something  surprised  that  didn't, 
however,  disapprove  of  me.  Thus  encouraged, 
I  went  on.  If  I  hadn't  thought  these  things  out 
in  the  monotonous,  unoccupied  hours  at  Creed 
&  Creed's,  my  stunned  brain  would  not  have 
been  master  of  them  now. 

"  I  only  meant  that  the  war  was  but  one  of  the 
forces,  one  of  the  innumerable  forces,  which  the 
new  world  in  the  making — it  isn't  made  yet  by 
any  means — has  put  into  operation.  If  a  house 
collapses  it  shatters  all  the  windows;  but  you 
can't  say  that  the  shattering  of  the  windows  made 
the  house  collapse." 

I  could  see  by  his  stare  he  was  literally  minded. 

"But  what — what  house  is  collapsing?" 
262 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"The  house  all  round  us,  the  house  of  this 
particular  form  of  civilization.  It's  sliding  down. 
It's  been  sliding  down  for  years.  You  might  say 
that  it  began  to  slide  down  as  soon  as  it  was  put 
up,  because  it  was  wrongly  constructed.  A  build 
ing  full  of  flaws  begins  to  settle  before  they  get 
the  roof  on,  and  though  it  may  stand  for  years 
the  ultimate  crash  is  only  a  question  of  time. 
War  came  as  soon  as  our  building  began  to  split; 
the  building  didn't  begin  to  split  because  the  war 
came.  It  was  splitting  anyhow." 

"That  seems  to  me — "  he  sought  for  a  suffi 
ciently  condemnatory  word — "that  seems  to  me 
sheer  socialism." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  it  is.  The  Socialists 
wouldn't  say  so.  It  isn't  anything  in  particular. 
It's  just — just  fact." 

"Only?"  Vio  smiled,  with  her  delicate,  pene 
trating  sarcasm. 

"Only,"  I  echoed.  "But  as  we  belong  to  a 
world  that  doesn't  like  fact  it  isn't  of  much  im 
portance." 

Bewilderment  brought  a  pained  expression  to 
the  handsome,  rather  stupid,  countenance. 

"What  the — what  on  earth  do  you  mean  by 
that?" 

"Only  that  we've  a  genius  for  dodging  issues 
and  shutting  our  eyes  to  what's  straight  before 


us." 


"  Do  you  mean  the  ruin  straight  before  us  ?" 
"Not  necessarily,  Vio.     The  collapse  of  this 
particular  form  of  civilization  wouldn't  mean  ruin, 

263 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

because  we'd  get  a  better  form.     I  suppose  it's 
coming  into  existence  now." 

"I  don't  know  about  that/'  the  colonel  ob 
jected.  "As  far  as  I  see,  things  are  pretty  much 
the  same  as  they've  always  been,  and  they're 
getting  more  so." 

"I  suppose  none  of  us  sees  more  than  we  have 
our  eyes  open  to.  Things  of  the  greatest  im 
portance  to  us  happen,  and  we  don't  know  that 
they're  going  on." 

"I  hope  that  that  kind  of  song  and  dance  isn't 
going  on — the  breakdown  of  our  civilization.  It 
wasn't  for  that  we  gave  'em  hell  at  Chateau- 
Thierry." 

"Oh,  none  of  us  knows  what  anything  is  for, 
except  in  the  vaguest  way.  All  we  can  do  is  to 
plod  ahead  and  follow  the  thread  of  flame." 

"  Follow  the  thread  of  what  ?" 

I  was  sufficiently  master  of  myself  to  indulge 
in  a  mild  laugh. 

"That's  just  an  expression  that's  been  in  my 
mind  during  the  time  when  I've  been — been 
floundering  about.  Name  I  invented  for— for 
a  principle." 

In  this,  however,  he  was  not  interested. 

"Yes,  but  your  collapsing  house — " 

"It  may  not  come  down  altogether.  I'm 
neither  a  prophet  nor  a  prophet's  son.  All  I  can 
see  is  what  I  suppose  everybody  sees,  that  our 
civilization  has  been  rotten.  It  couldn't  hold 
together.  It  hadn't  the  cohesive  strength.  Per 
haps  I  was  wrong  in  saying  that  it  was  falling 

264 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

down;  it's  more  as  if  we  were  pulling  it  down, 
to  build  up  something  better.  It's  our  blind 
instinct  toward  perfection — " 

But  refusing  to  listen  to  any  more,  he  got  up 
to  go.  A  brave  man  in  the  presence  of  enemies 
of  flesh  and  blood,  intellectual  foes  frightened 
him.  At  the  first  sound  of  their  shells  he  rushed 
for  his  mental  dugout  which  he  burrowed  in  the 
ground  of  denial.  "I  don't  believe  that"  and 
"All  tommyrot"  seemed  to  him  shelters  from 
any  kind  of  danger. 

But  the  main  point  to  me  was  that  I  had  in  a 
measure  not  only  held  my  own  but  got  on  to 
superior  ground.  I  had  been  able  to  talk;  in 
doing  so  I  had  got  him  at  a  slight  disadvantage. 
The  bit  of  self-respect  inspired  by  this  achieve 
ment  enabled  me  to  play  the  host  and  accompany 
him  to  the  door  with  the  kind  of  informal  for 
mality  to  which  I  had  been  so  long  unaccustomed. 

And  in  performing  this  small  duty  I  made  a 
discovery.  As  he  preceded  me  down-stairs  I 
remembered  seeing  the  back  of  his  head  once  be 
fore.  It  was  the  kind  of  head  not  easily  forgot 
ten.  Moreover,  I  had  seen  it  in  circumstances 
that  had  caused  me  to  note  it  in  particular. 
Where  and  when  and  how  were  details  that  did 
not  at  once  return  to  me;  but  I  knew  that  the 
association  was  sinister. 

As  I  returned  from  my  mission  in  showing  him 
to  the  door  I  heard  Vio  speaking. 

"Come  in  here,  Billy.  There's  something  I 
want  to  say." 

265 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She  was  still  behind  the  tea-table,  pensive 
rather  than  subdued,  resolute  rather  than  un 
happy. 

"I  liked  your  talking  like  that,"  she  began  at 
once,  without  looking  up  at  me.  "It's — it's  the 
way  we  shall  have  to  play  the  game." 

A  box  of  cigarettes  stood  on  the  tea-table.  I 
took  one  and  struck  a  match,  the  usual  stage- 
trick  for  gaining  a  little  time. 

"What  game  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  when  I 
had  carefully  blown  out  the  match  and  deposited 
it  in  an  ash-tray. 

"What  game  can  I  mean  but — but  that  of 
your  coming  back?" 

"Oh,  is  that  a  game?" 

"Only  in  the  sense  of  giving  us  something  to 
play.  We  can't  just — just  live  it." 

"Why  can't  we?" 

With  a  quick  movement  she  was  on  her  feet, 
flinging  out  her  hands. 

"For  all  the  reasons  that  I  should  think  you'd 
see."  She  came  and  stood  on  the  hearth-rug, 
confronting  me.  "Billy,  I  wonder  if  you  have 
the  faintest  idea  of  what  I'm  doing  for  your  sake  ?" 

"I've  more  than  the  faintest  idea,  Vio.  Some 
day,  when  we're  able  to  talk  more  easily  than  we 
are  as  yet,  I  shall  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am. 
Just  now  I'm — I'm  rather  dazed.  I  have  to  get 
my  bearings — " 

She,  too,  had  taken  a  cigarette,  lighting  it 
nervously,  carelessly,  puffing  rapidly  at  the  thing 
and  moving  about  the  room. 

266 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"And  there's  another  thing,"  she  began,  tak 
ing  no  notice  of  what  I  was  trying  to  say;  "I 
don't  mind  your  talking  as  you  did  just  now,  so 
long  as  it's — as  it's  through  your  hat;  but  if  it 


isn't—" 


"I  can't  say  that  it  is." 

"That's  just  what  I  was  afraid  of.  In  the 
places  where  you've  been — I  don't  want  to  know 
anything  about  them,"  she  interjected,  with  a 
passionate  gesture  of  the  hand  that  held  the 
cigarette,  "but  in  such  places  men  do  pick  up 
revolutionary  ideas,  just  as  they  do  in  prisons!" 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  a  question  of  getting 
revolutionary  ideas,  Vio,  so  much  as  it's  one  of 
living  in  a  revolutionary  world." 

"And  that's  what  I  want  to  warn  you  against. 
It  won't  go  down,  Billy,  not  from  you." 

"Why  not  from  me,  in  particular?" 

"Oh,  why  do  you  make  me  explain  things? 
Isn't  it  perfectly  clear?  If  you're  coming  back 
among  your  old  friends  you'll  have  to  be,  after 
what's  happened,  more — how  shall  I  put  it? — 
more  conservative,  more  like  everybody  else— 
than  any  one.  You  can't  afford  to  have  wild 
ideas,  because  people  will  only  say  that  you're 
trying  to  drag  us  along  the  way  you  went 
yourself." 

I  renounced  this  discussion  to  ask  the  question 
that  was  chiefly  on  my  mind. 

"Vio,  who's  that  man  that  just  went  out?" 

She  threw  me  a  look  from  the  other  side  of  the 
room. 

267 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"You  heard.  He's — where  can  you  catch  on? 
He's  Emmy  Fairborough's  brother." 

"Wasn't  there — wasn't  there  a  divorce?" 

"Emmy's?  Yes;  Lord  Fairborough  and  she 
are  divorced,  but  what  difference  does  that 
make?" 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  Lady  Fairborough.  I 
forgot  she  had  been  a  Stroud.  I  meant — I  meant 
him." 

"Oh,  he ?    Yes,  I  think  he  was." 

"Divorced?" 

"Yes,  divorced.     What  of  it?" 

"To  whom  had  he  been  married?" 

"How  should  I  know?  It  was  to — to  some 
low  creature,  an  actress  or  something,  the  sort 
of  thing  men  do  when  they're  young  and — and — " 

"And  wild?" 

"Wild,  if  you  like.     Why  are  you  asking?" 

But  I  was  not  sure  of  being  ready  to  tell  her, 
so  many  things  had  to  be  formulated  first.  To 
gain  more  time  I  lighted  another  cigarette,  and 
she  spoke  while  I  was  doing  it.  Holding  her  own 
cigarette  delicately,  as  if  examining  its  spark, 
she  said,  with  a  staccato  intonation  that  empha 
sized  each  word: 

"Billy,  you  remember  what  I  said  earlier  this 
afternoon?  I  can  go  back  to  our  past  and  try  to 
pick  it  up.  I  can't  go  back  to  anything  that 
comes  after  that  past  and — and  before  to-day. 
Do  you  understand?  It's  more  than  three  years 
since  they  told  me  your  section  was  blown  to 
pieces  at  Bourg-la-Comtesse.  Most  of  your  com- 

268 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

rades  were  found — and  buried.  You  were  miss 
ing;  but  missing  with  very  little  hope.  As  the 
weeks  went  by  that  little  hope  dwindled  till  there 
was  none.  Then  came  the  news  that — that  all 
that  time  you  had  been — alive." 

"And  I  suppose  that  Wolf  told  you  .  .  ." 

"He  told  me  a  story,  or  as  much  of  it  as  I  could 
listen  to.  But  that's  not  what  I  meant  to  speak 
about  now.  I  want  to  say  that — that  I  bury  all 
that,  deep,  deep;  only  that  I  can't  do  it  unless 
you  consent  to  bury — " 

"Everything  there's  been  on  your  side.  Is 
that  it,  Vio?" 

"I  shall  ask  no  questions." 

"Not  even  if  I'm  ready  to  answer  them?" 

"Not  even  if  you're  ready  to  answer  them;  but 
I  shall  expect  you  not  to  ask  questions  of  me." 

"So  that  between  us  there  will  be  a  gulf  of 
silence." 

She  inclined  her  head  without  speaking. 

"But  why,  Vio?     Why?" 

She  swept  up  to  me,  throwing  away  her  ciga 
rette,  and  laying  both  her  hands  on  my  shoulders. 

"Because,  old  boy,  I'm  your  wife,  and  I'm 
trying  to  help  you.  I'm  trying  to  help  you  be 
cause — because — " 

Her  nearness,  the  scent  of  her  person,  the 
black-opal  mystery  and  fire  were  like  hypnotic 
enchantment. 

"  Because  you  used  to — to  care  for  me  a  little, 
Vio  ?  Is  it  possible  that — that  I  can  think  that  ?" 

She  nodded. 

269 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"That's  part  of  it,  of  course.  I  don't  forget 
it.  But  what  I  remember  more  is  what  I've  told 
you  already,  that,  whatever  you  did,  I  sent  you 
to  do  it.  Now,  if  there's  expiation  to  be  made,  I 
come  in  for  that  as  well  as  you." 

"So  that  we  make  it  together?" 

"So  that  we  make  it  together." 

Having  already  been  bold  I  grew  bolder.  Lift 
ing  my  hands  to  my  shoulders  I  laid  them  on 
hers. 

"And  will  you — will  you  let  me  kiss  you  on 
that,  Vio?" 

"Once,"  she  consented;  "but — but  don't — 
don't  touch  me." 


PART   III 


CHAPTER   I 

SO  we  began  what  Vio  called  the  expiation,  and 
what  to  me  was  no  more  than  the  attempt 
to  persuade  our  friends  that  they  didn't  know 
what  they  knew.  This,  according  to  Vio's  calcu 
lations,  could  be  best  achieved  by  never  for  an 
instant  showing  the  white  feather  of  an  uncom 
fortable  conscience.  Our  assurance  was  to  be 
something  like  the  Stroud  aplomb  on  emerging 
from  the  courts  of  bankruptcy  or  divorce.  To 
be  unaware  of  anything  odd  in  one's  conduct 
helped  others  to  be  unaware  of  it,  too.  A  high 
spirit,  a  high  head,  a  high  hand  carried  one 
through  difficult  situations  regardless  of  the 
strife  of  tongues. 

I  didn't  think  it  necessary  to  remind  Vio  that 
the  strife  of  tongues  could  go  on  even  if  we  didn't 
hear  it.  Nothing  else  was  possible  when  Wolf's 
fatuity  blew  the  trumpet  and  beat  the  drum  if 
the  clamor  showed  signs  of  dying  down.  It 
wasn't  that  he  told  the  truth,  but  that  he  told 
lies  so  easy  of  detection.  Alice  Mountney  did 
tell  the  truth  as  far  as  she  knew  it;  but  where  she 
didn't  know  it  she  supplied  the  deficiency  by  in 
vention.  That  those  so  near  us  should  be  in 

18  273 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

conflict  naturally  called  for  comment,  especially 
when  Vio  refused  to  let  me  speak. 

For  the  first  few  weeks  I  was  too  busily  oc 
cupied  to  think  of  what  any  one  was  saying,  see 
ing  that  the  details  I  had  to  arrange  were  so  un 
usual.  Of  the  steps  taken  to  become  a  living 
citizen  again,  and  get  back  my  property  from  my 
heirs,  I  give  no  account  further  than  to  say  that 
they  absorbed  my  attention.  My  standing  in  the 
community  I  was  thus  unable  to  compute  till 
we  were  into  the  new  year. 

By  this  time  I  had  taken  part  in  a  number  of 
family  events  on  which  I  shall  touch  briefly.  At 
Christmas  we  had  gone  to  Washington  to  spend 
the  festival  with  Minna  and  Tom  Cantley. 
There  we  had  met  Ernestine,  in  one  of  the  inter 
vals  of  her  flag-raising,  and  on  the  way  back  to 
Boston  my  brother  Dan's  ship  had  unexpectedly 
arrived  in  New  York.  A  series  of  domestic 
gatherings  had  therefore  taken  place,  at  all  of 
which  Vio  had  worked  heroically.  As  she  had 
generally  hitherto  ignored  my  family's  existence 
this  graciousness  was  not  without  its  effect. 
Where  she  did  so  much  for  my  rehabilitation, 
those  close  to  me  in  blood  could  hardly  do  less 
than  follow  her  example. 

They  followed  it  almost  to  the  letter.  That 
is  to  say,  none  of  them  asked  me  any  questions, 
presumably  wishing  to  spare  both  themselves 
and  me  embarrassment.  Once  or  twice,  when  I 
attempted  to  speak  of  my  experiences,  the  readi 
est  plunged  in  with  some  topic  that  would  lead 

274 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

us  away  from  dangerous  ground.  If  I  yielded 
to  this  it  was  because  speaking  of  myself  at  all 
was  the  deliberate  exposure  of  nerves  still  raw 
and  quivering.  I  could  do  it,  but  I  couldn't 
do  it  willingly. 

Between  Minna  and  myself  there  had  never 
been  much  sympathy,  largely  because  I  was  of  the 
dreamy  temperament  and  she  of  the  sharp  and 
practical.  That  I  should  make  beauty  a  career 
in  life,  and  take  advantage  of  the  fact  that  our 
father  had  left  me  a  modest  sufficiency  to  give 
my  services  to  a  museum  of  fine  arts,  shocked 
her  to  the  heart.  A  man  should  do  a  man's 
work,  she  said,  not  that  of  an  old  Miss  Nancy. 
When  I  pointed  out  that  many  of  the  manufac 
turers  in  New  England,  whose  work  had  to  do 
with  textiles,  came  to  me  for  advice,  she  replied 
that  she  didn't  believe  it.  Her  attitude  now  was 
that  I  had  done  no  worse  than  she  had  always 
foretold  and  any  one  might  have  expected. 

Ernestine,  to  do  her  justice,  was  as  tolerant  of 
me  as  she  was  of  any  one  who  wasn't  a  flag.  The 
Flag  having  become  her  idol  and  she  its  high- 
priestess,  she  could  talk  of  nothing  else.  The 
nation  had  apparently  gone  to  war  in  order  that 
the  cult  of  the  Flag  should  be  the  more  firmly 
established;  and  all  other  matters  passed  out 
side  the  circle  of  her  consideration.  She  knew 
I  had  been  dead  and  had  somehow  become  alive 
again;  but  as  the  detail  didn't  call  for  the  rais 
ing  of  a  flag  she  couldn't  give  her  mind  to  it.  As 
she  could  give  her  mind  in  no  greater  measure 

275 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

to  Minna's  canteen-work  or  Vio's  clothes,  I  prof 
ited  by  the  generous  nature  of  her  exclusions. 

For  Dan,  when  I  met  him,  I  hardly  existed, 
but  that  might  have  been  so  in  any  case,  as  we 
had  never  been  really  intimate.  Recently  he 
had  been  working  with  English  naval  officers 
and  had  taken  on  their  manners  and  form  of 
speech. 

"Hello,  old  dear.  Top-hole  to  see  you  look 
ing  so  fit.  I  say,  where  can  I  find  a  barber? 
Got  a  mane  on  me  like  a  lion." 

That  was  our  greeting,  and  the  extent  to  which 
our  confidences  went.  He  sailed  for  Hampton 
Roads  without  a  word  as  to  my  adventures. 

This  he  did,  I  am  sure,  in  a  spirit  of  kindness. 
They  were  all  moved  by  the  spirit  of  kindness,  and 
the  axiom  of  the  less  said  the  better.  I  confess 
that  I  was  mystified  by  this  forbearance,  and  a 
little  hurt.  Though  I  had  been  a  fool,  I  had  not 
been  a  traitor;  yet  every  one  treated  me  as  one. 
I  should  never  have  spoken  of  my  two  years  of 
aberration  of  my  own  accord;  yet  when  all 
avoided  the  subject,  as  if  it  opened  the  cup 
board  of  the  family  dishonor,  I  resented  the 
implication. 

It  was  Tom  Cantley  with  whom  I  was  most  at 
€ase,  perhaps  because  he  was  not  a  blood  relation. 
A  big,  genial,  boresome  fellow,  he  found  me  use 
ful  as  a  listener.  His  rambling  accounts  of  the 
doings  and  shortcomings  of  the  War  Trade 
Board,  and  what  he  would  have  accomplished 
there  if  given  a  free  hand,  I  pretended  to  follow, 

276 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

because  it  left  me  free  to  pursue  my  own  thoughts. 
As  he  never  asked  for  comments  on  my  part, 
being  content  when  he  could  dribble  out  his  own, 
the  plan  worked  well. 

And  yet  it  was  Tom  who  awakened  me  to  the 
true  meaning  of  my  situation.  That  was  on  the 
day  we  left  Washington,  in  the  station,  as  Vio 
and  I  were  about  to  take  our  train.  Vio  was 
ahead  with  Minna,  when  Tom  suddenly  clutched 
me  by  the  arm. 

"Say,  old  sport;  what  about  clubs?  Boston 
clubs  I  mean.  I  suppose  you're  a  member  of  the 
Shawmut  and  the  Beacon  Hill  just  as  before  you 
went  away.  No  action  has  ever  been  taken  in 
the  matter  as  far  as  I've  heard.  But  I  wouldn't 
press  the  point,  if  I  were  you,  not  for  a  while  yet. 
Later  .  .  .  when  everything  blows  over  ...  we 


can  .      .  we  can  see." 


I  nodded  speechlessly.  It  was  the  most  sig 
nificant  thing  that  had  been  said  to  me  yet. 

"Yes,"  I  assented,  weakly.  "When  every 
thing  blows  over  we  can  see." 

What  I  saw  at  the  minute  was  that  if  I  at 
tempted  to  resume  my  membership  in  either  of 
my  clubs  there  would  be  opposition.  My  case 
was  as  grave  as  that;  though  why  it  should  be 
I  hadn't  an  adequate  idea.  Annoyed  hitherto, 
I  became  deeply  troubled  and  perplexed. 

Nevertheless,  when  we  arrived  in  Boston 
again  it  was  to  experience  nothing  but  the  same 
widespread  kindness.  True,  it  was  largely  from 
relatives  or  from  friends  of  Vio's  as  admired  her 

277 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

pluck.  The  tragedy  of  her  life  being  plain,  tnose 
,who  appreciated  it  were  eager  to  stand  by  her; 
and  to  stand  by  her  meant  courtesy  to  me.  I 
could  be  invited  to  a  dinner  to  which  I  went  under 
my  wife's  banner;  but  I  couldn't  be  admitted 
to  a  club  where  I  should  stand  on  my  merit  as  a 
man.  The  distinction  was  galling. 

Equally  so  I  found  my  position  with  regard 
to  Colonel  Stroud.  He  made  himself  our  social 
protector,  filling  in  what  might  be  considered 
unoccupied  ground  and  defending  anything  open 
to  attack.  He  did  this  even  in  our  house.  With 
out  usurping  my  place  as  host,  he  fulfilled  those 
duties  which  a  companion  performs  for  an  inva 
lid  lady,  passing  the  cigars  and  cigarettes  after 
dinner,  and  seeing  that  our  guests  had  their 
favorite  liqueurs.  Though  our  friends  came  nom 
inally  to  lunch  or  dine  with  Vio  and  me,  it  seemed 
in  effect  to  be  with  Vio  and  him.  Every  one 
knew,  apparently,  that  he  and  she  had  been  on 
the  eve  of  a  romantic  act,  which  my  coming  back 
had  frustrated.  Something  was  due  them,  there 
fore,  in  the  way  of  compensation;  and  consid 
ering  what  I  had  done  they  had  the  public 
sympathy. 

That  my  mind  was  chiefly  on  this  situation, 
however,  I  cannot  truthfully  say.  I  thought  of 
it  more  than  incidentally,  and  yet  not  so  much  as 
to  make  it  a  sole  preoccupation.  More  engross 
ing  than  anything  personal  to  myself  was  the 
plight  of  the  world  and  the  future  immediately 
before  us.  With  the  gathering  of  the  Conference 

278 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

round  the  table  of  the  Quai  d'Orsay,  the  new 
world,  of  which  one  of  the  phases  had  been  war, 
was  entering  on  still  another  phase  even  more 
momentous.  To  the  mere  onlooker,  supposing 
oneself  to  be  an  onlooker  and  no  more,  it  would 
be  an  exhibition  of  the  grandeur  and  impotence 
of  man  on  a  scale  of  spectacular  magnificence. 

The  January  of  the  armistice  will  be  remem 
bered  as  a  month  of  dramatic  occurrences  illus 
trating  the  yearnings,  passions,  and  fatalities  of 
the  human  race  with  an  almost  theatrical  vivid 
ness.  In  its  very  first  days  the  old  era  sighed  it 
self  out  in  the  death  of  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
while  on  the  soil  over  which  the  Caesars  had  ridden 
in  their  Triumphs,  a  New  World  citizen  and  Presi 
dent  was  hailed  as  the  herald  of  an  epoch  alto 
gether  new.  Almost  at  the  same  moment,  blood 
was  flowing  in  the  streets  of  Berlin,  working  up 
about  the  middle  of  the  month  to  the  assassina 
tion  of  Liebknecht  and  Rosa  Luxembourg.  The 
Americans  in  Paris,  having  secured  on  one  day 
the  right  of  way  for  their  League  of  Nations,  the 
antiphon  of  opposition  burst  forth  from  Wash 
ington  on  the  next. 

Events  like  these,  and  they  were  many,  were 
as  geysers  springing  from  a  caldron  in  which 
the  passions  and  ideals  of  mankind  were  seething 
incoherently.  The  geysers  naturally  caught  the 
eye,  but  if  there  had  been  no  boiling  sea  they 
would  not  have  spouted  up.  More  than  the 
geysers  I  watched  the  boiling  sea,  and  that  I  saw 
all  around  me. 

279 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

That  others  didn't  see  it,  or  saw  it  as  less  ebull 
ient,  made  no  difference  to  me,  for  the  reason 
that  I  had  been  in  its  depths.  Vio  didn't  see  it; 
Wolf  didn't  see  it;  Stroud  didn't  see  it.  Of  my 
family,  only  Tom  Cantley  had  vague  apprehen 
sions  of  what  he  called  " labor  unrest";  but  this 
he  regarded  as  no  more  than  a  whirlpool  in  an 
ocean  relatively  smooth.  In  Boston  generally, 
as  probably  throughout  the  Union,  the  issue  was 
definite  and  concrete,  expressing  itself  in  the 
question  as  to  whether  America  would  back  a 
league  of  nations  or  would  not.  That  was  the 
burning  topic  of  debate;  but  to  me  it  seemed  like 
concentrating  on  the  relative  merits  of  a  raft  or 
a  lifeboat  when  the  ship  is  drifting  on  the  rocks. 
That  our  whole  system  of  labor,  pleasure,  religion, 
finance,  and  government  was  in  process  of  trans 
formation  I  had  many  reasons  for  believing;  but 
I  couldn't  speak  of  that  without  being  scouted 
as  a  Bolshevist,  or  laughed  down  as  pessimistic. 

I  mention  these  circumstances  in  order  that 
you  may  see  that  nothing  personal  could  be 
wholly  absorbing.  His  exact  social  status  means 
little  to  a  man  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  that  any 
minute  may  go  down.  His  chief  concern  is  to 
save  himself  and  his  fellow-passengers,  with  nat 
ural  speculation  as  to  the  haven  they  will  find 
when  the  rescued  have  scrambled  to  the  shore. 

Thus,  during  that  month  of  January,  I  saw  my 
self  as  the  victim  of  circumstances  that  mattered 
less  than  they  might  have  done  had  we  not  been 
on  the  eve  of  well-nigh  universal  change.  The 

280 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

life  I  was  leading  with  Vio  was  not  satisfactory, 
but  even  that  was  not  permanent.  The  thread 
of  flame,  I  was  convinced,  had  not  led  thus  far 
without  meaning  to  lead  me  farther  still,  and  I 
counted  on  that  to  show  me  the  way.  I  counted 
on  that  not  merely  in  my  own  affairs,  but  in  those 
of  our  disintegrating  world.  We  should  not  be 
impelled  to  pull  down  our  present  house  till  the 
materials  were  at  hand  for  building  up  a  better 
one.  Vio,  Wolf,  Stroud,  and  the  bulk  of  the 
American  people  were  right  in  not  fearing  dis 
aster,  though  wrong  in  not  anticipating  a  radical 
shifting  of  bases.  Their  desperate  clinging  to 
worn-out  phases  of  existence  might  be  futile; 
but  the  futility  would  become  apparent  in  the 
ripeness  of  time.  It  was  not  an  aspect  of  the 
case  that  troubled  me. 

What  did  trouble  me  was  Vio  s  relation  to 
Stroud.  It  troubled  me  the  more  for  the  eason 
that  in  proportion  as  the  vapors  cleared  from  my 
intelligence  I  saw  myself  with  my  old  rights  as 
her  husband.  The  old  passion  was  back  with  me, 
with  the  old  longings  and  claims,  even  though  she 
disregarded  them.  According  to  the  judgment 
I  was  beginning  to  form,  she  disregarded  them 
the  more  for  seeing  that  her  efforts  to  re-estab 
lish  me  in  Boston  hadn't  been  successful.  As 
far  as  she  could  positively  carry  me,  I  went;  but 
I  could  cover  no  ground  by  myself.  The  minute 
I  was  alone,  I  was  let  alone,  simply,  courteously, 
but  unanimously  dropped.  It  was  the  sort  of 
general  action  it  is  useless  to  reason  with  or  fight 

281 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

against;  and  Vio  saw  it.  There  came  a  day 
when  I  drew  the  conclusion  that  she  was  giving 
up  the  struggle,  and  that  the  offer  I  had  meant 
to  make  on  the  first  afternoon  of  my  return  would 
be  accepted  if  renewed.  I  was  not  sure;  she  was 
not  communicative,  and  the  signs  were  all  too 
obscure  to  give  me  more  than  a  vacillating  sense 
of  guidance.  My  general  impression  was  that  she 
didn't  know  the  way  she  was  taking,  while  Stroud 
was  sure  of  it.  As  an  adroit  player  of  a  game  of 
which  she  didn't  know  the  elementary  principles, 
he  was  leading  her  on  to  a  point  at  which  she 
would  have  to  acknowledge  herself  beaten. 

This,  in  the  main,  I  could  only  stand  by  and 
watch,  because  I  was  under  a  cloud.  It  was  a 
cloud  that  settled  on  me  heavier  and  blacker  as 
January  passed  and  February  came  in.  The 
world-seething  had  its  counterpart  in  the  seeth 
ing  within  myself.  There  were  days  when  my 
inner  anguish  was  not  less  frenzied  than  that  of 
Germany  or  Russia,  in  spite  of  my  outward  calm. 
I  was  still  following  Vio  from  house  to  house,  with 
Stroud  as  our  guide  or  showman;  but  the  con 
viction  was  growing  that  I  must  soon  have  done 
with  it.  Not  a  day  nor  an  hour  but  seared  my 
consciousness  with  the  fact  that  he  was  the  man 
whom  Vio  loved. 

"This  is  not  a  life,"  I  began  to  tell  myself, 
bitterly.  It  became  my  favorite  comment.  I  made 
it  when  I  got  up  in  the  morning,  and  when  I  went 
to  bed  at  night.  I  made  it  when  Vio  and  I  en 
gaged  in  polite  conversation,  and  when  she  in- 

282 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

formed  me  of  our  engagements  for  the  day.  I 
made  it  when  I  entered  other  people's  drawing- 
rooms,  and  when  other  people  entered  ours.  A 
life  was  a  reality;  a  life  was  work;  a  life  involved 
above  all  what  Mildred  Averill  called  production. 
When  one  didn't  produce  there  was  no  place  for 
one.  There  was  no  place  for  me  here.  With 
Pelly,  Bridget,  and  the  Finn  I  had  touched  the 
genuine,  the  foundational;  in  lugging  carpets  I 
had  done  work  of  which  the  usefulness  was  in  no 
wise  diminished  by  the  fact  that  any  other  man 
could  have  done  it  just  as  well.  In  my  room  with 
the  fungi,  on  my  eighteen  dollars  a  week,  I  had 
slept  soundly  and  lived  complacently,  in  harmony 
with  whatever  was  basic  and  elemental.  It  began 
to  dawn  in  me  as  a  hope  that  perhaps  the  windings 
of  the  thread  of  flame  would  lead  me  back  to  what 
was  a  life,  with  a  new  appreciation  of  its  value. 

And  then  one  day,  when  I  was  on  the  stairs  of 
our  own  house,  coming  down  from  the  third  to  the 
second  story,  I  saw  Lydia  Blair  standing  on  the 
landing,  outside  of  Vio's  door.  Boosey  was  beside 
her,  and  she  was  taking  a  parcel  from  his  hands. 

"Hello,  kid,"  she  said,  nodding  in  my  direction. 
"Thought  I  should  see  you  round  here  some 
day.  Wonder  I  didn't  do  it  before."  She  ad 
dressed  Boosey,  with  another  nod  toward  me. 
"He  and  me  were  at  school  together.  Weren't 
we?"  she  continued,  with  her  enchanting  smile, 
as  I  reached  the  lowest  step. 

"Yes,"  I  managed  to  gasp,  "the  school  of  ad 
versity.'* 

283 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"And  a  mighty  good  school,  too,  for  a  sport. 
Do  you  know  it?" 

"But,  Lydia,"  I  began,  "what  in  the  name 
of—?" 

:°Sh-h!  Don't  swear,"  was  all  she  said,  as 
taking  Boosey's  parcel  she  opened  Vio's  door. 
Going  in  softly  she  closed  it  behind  her. 

Once  more  Boosey's  expression  dramatized  my 
situation.  That  the  master  of  the  house  in  which 
he  exercised  his  functions — even  such  a  master 
as  I — should  be  called  "kid"  by  a  girl  like  Lydia 
created  a  social  topsyturvydom  defying  all  his 
principles.  For  perceptible  seconds  he  stared 
in  an  astonishment  mingled  with  disdain,  after 
which  he  turned  on  his  heel  to  tell  the  news  in  the 
kitchen. 

But  I  was  too  puzzled  by  Lydia's  reappearance 
to  tear  myself  away.  What  had  she  to  do  with 
Vio?  How  did  she  get  the  right  to  go  in  and 
out  of  Vio's  room  with  this  matter-of-course 
authority  ? 

In  a  corner  of  the  hall,  beside  the  window  look 
ing  over  the  Common,  was  an  armchair  in  which 
Vio  often  sat  when  taking  her  breakfast  up-stairs 
and  glancing  over  her  correspondence.  I  sank 
into  it  now,  and  waited.  Sooner  or  later  Lydia 
must  come  out  again. 

This  she  did,  some  twenty  minutes  later,  dainty 
and  nonchalant. 

"Lydia,"  I  cried,  springing  to  my  feet,  "what 
in  the  name  of  Heaven  are  you  doing  here?" 

"You  see." 

284 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

The  parcel  she  had  taken  from  Boosey  was  now 
undone,  revealing  some  three  or  four  pairs  of  cor 
sets.  Laying  the  bundle  on  the  table  Vio  used 
for  her  breakfast-tray  the  girl  began  to  roll  the 
corsets  neatly. 

There  were  so  many  questions  I  wanted  to  ask 
that  I  hardly  knew  where  to  begin. 

"How  long  have  you  been  coming  to — to  see 
my  wife?" 

"Oh,  not  so  very  long,  a  month  perhaps." 

"Did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"Why,  sure." 

"Is  that  what  brought  you?" 

She  glanced  up  sidewise  from  her  work,  with 
one  of  those  glances  she  alone  could  fling. 

"Well,  you  have  got  a  nerve.  Suppose  I  said 
yes?" 

"Who — who  told  you  where  to  find  me?" 

"Who  do  you  think?" 

"Miss  Averillr" 

"No;  it  wasn't  Miss  Averill.  As  far  as  I  can 
make  out  little  old  Milly  doesn't  give  you  a  second 
thought,  now  that  she  knows  you're  in  the  bosom 
of  your  family." 

"Is  that  true?" 

"Why,  of  course  it's  true.  Did  you  want  to 
think  she  was  pining  away?" 

"Well,  who  did  tell  you?" 

"Why  should  I  want  any  one  to  tell  me ?  Ever 
since  I've  been  with  Clotilde  I'm  always  on  the 
lookout  for  new  customers.  I  get  a  commission 
on  every  pair." 

285 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"  But  it  wasn't  for  the  commission  you  came  to 
see  Mrs.  Harrowby." 

"Well,  what  was  it  for  then?" 

"That's  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

"How  much  did  you  tell  me  when  you  dis 
appeared  from  the  Barcelona  over  two  years 
ago?" 

"I  told  you  as  much  as  I  could  tell  any  one." 

"You  didn't  tell  me  your  name  was  Har 
rowby." 

"I  didn't  know  it." 

She  swung  round  from  her  work  with  the  par 
cel.  "You  didn't— what?" 

I  tapped  my  forehead.  "Shell-shock.  I'd— 
I'd  forgotten  who  I  was." 

A  flip  of  her  slender  hand  dismissed  this  ex 
planation,  as  she  resumed  her  task. 

"Ah,  go  on!"  And  yet  she  veered  back  again, 
with  a  dash  of  tears  in  her  blue  eyes.  "Say,  kid, 
I  know  all  about  it.  You  needn't  try  to  put 
anything  over  on  me.  I  know  all  about  it,  and 
I'm  sorry  for  you.  That's  what  I  want  to  say. 
Do  you  remember  how  I  .used  to  tell  you  I  was 
your  friend,  and  that  Harry  Drinkwater  was 
your  friend,  too?  Well,  we  are — even  now. 
There's  something  about  you  we  both — we  both 
kind  o'  took  to.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but 
it's  there.  It  was  there  when  I  thought  you 
might  be  a  swell  crook;  and  if  I  didn't  mind 
that  I  don't  mind — this.  The  only  thing  I'm 
thinking  is  that  you're  up  against  it  awful  thick; 
and  so  I  told  Dick  Stroud  that  whoever  shook 

286 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

you  the  sad  hand  of  farewell  Fd  be  on  the  spot 
as  the  ministering  angel." 

There  were  so  many  points  here  that  I  could 
only  seize  the  one  lying,  as  it  were,  on  top. 

"So  you — you  know  Dick  Stroud?" 

She  had  gone  on  with  her  work  again. 

"  Know  him  ?    Well,  I  should  say !" 

"Have  you  known  him  long?" 

"Known  him  ever  since  .  .  .  Say,  I'll  tell 
you  when  it  was.  It  was  after  we  all  came  back 
on  that  ship  together,  and  I  was  still  doing  the 
stenog  act  for  Boydie  Averill,  before  I  got  Harry 
back  on  the  job  again.  Well,  one  day  that  guy 
floated  in,  towed  by  little  Lulu.  He  sure  is  her 
style  for  fair,  or  he  used  to  be  before  he  went  to 
France." 

"  Did — did  Mrs.  Averill  introduce  him  to  you  ?" 

"  He  didn't  wait  for  that.  He  introduced  him 
self  with  a  look.  I  didn't  need  a  second  one 
before  I'd  read  him  like  a  headline.  When  I 
started  to  go  home  that  evening  he  was  waiting 
at  the  corner  to  take  me  in  a  taxi." 

"Did  you  let  him?" 

"Sure  I  let  him.  It  was  a  ride.  When  he 
asked  me  to  dinner  at  the  Blitz  I  let  him  do  that, 
too.  You  saw  us.  Don't  you  remember  that 
nut?  that's  what  you  called  him  afterward." 

It  came  to  me,  that  sleek  mass  of  silver,  dis 
tinguished  and  sinister  at  once. 

"So  that  was  he!" 

"That  was  Dick,  sure  thing!" 

"You  call  him  Dick?" 
287 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  else  would  I  call  him  when  he  wants 
me  to?  But  that's  giving  him  away." 

"Giving  whom  away?" 

Vio  had  come  out  of  her  room  without  our 
having  heard  her.  In  a  tea-gown  of  black  and 
gold  she  stood  before  us  in  an  almost  terrifying 
dignity. 

That  is,  it  was  almost  terrifying  to  me,  though 
Lydia  was  equal  to  the  situation. 

*  Oh,  madam,  I  didn't  know  you  heard.  Mr. 
Harrowby  was  just  kidding  me  about  Colonel 
Stroud." 

"  Indeed !"  Moving  forward  with  the  air  of  an 
astonished  queen,  Vio  seated  herself  in  the  arm 
chair.  "  But  why  should  Mr.  Harrowby  be — what 
was  the  word? — kidding  you  about  anything?" 

"Oh,  we're  old  friends.  Ain't  we?"  She 
turned  to  me  for  corroboration. 

"Very  good  old  friends,"  I  said,  with  some 
warmth. 

"Really!     And  you  never  told  me." 

"Madam  never  asked  me.  She  never  asked 
me  if  I  knew  Colonel  Stroud,  either.  How  could 
I  tell  that  she  wanted  to  know?" 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  to  know.  I'm  only 
interested — "  she  looked  toward  me — "that  you 
and — and  this  young  lady  should  be  so — so 


intimate." 


"I  hope  madam  doesn't  mind." 

"Let  me  see,"  Vio  began  to  calculate.  "It's 
about  four  or  five  weeks  since  Mrs.  Mountney 
sent  you  to  me." 

288 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"And  Mrs.  Averill  had  sent  me  to  her.  You 
see,  madam,  I  get  a  commission  on  every  pair, 
and  so — " 

"And  so  it  was  a  good  opportunity  to — " 

"To  improve   myself.     Yes,   madam." 

Vio's  brows  came  together  in  a  frown.  "To 
.  .  .  what?  I  don't  understand  you." 

"You  see,  madam,  it's  this  way.  I've  only 
taken  this  corset  job  to — to  get  an  insight. 
I'm  not  really  a  saleswoman  at  all.  I'm  an 
adventuress." 

It  was  the  only  moment  at  which  I  ever  saw 
Vio  nonplussed. 

"Oh,  you  are!"  was  all  she  could  find  to  say. 

"Well,  not  exactly  yet;  but  I'm  going  to  be. 
Only,  if  you're  an  adventuress  you've  got  to  be 
a  swell  adventuress.  There's  only  one  kind,  and 
it's  that.  But  you  see,  madam,  I've  never  had 
enough  to  do  with  ladies  to  be  the  real  thing;  and 
so  when  Clotilde  put  me  on  to  this  corset  stunt, 
I  thought  it  'd  give  me  a  chance  to  study  them." 

"To  study — ladies?" 

"Yes,  madam.  An  adventuress  nas  got  to  be 
that  much  of  a  lady  that  she  can  put  it  over  on 
a  duchess  or  she  might  just  as  well  stay  out  of 
the  business.  Any  boob  in  the  movie  line  would 
tell  you  that." 

"You  interest  me,"  Vio  said,  almost  beneath 
her  breath. 

"I  generally  interest  people,  madam,  when  I 
get  a-going.  Colonel  Stroud  says  that  if  I  was 
to  go  in  for — " 

19  289 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"That's  not  what  I  want  to  hear.  Tell  me  if — 
if  your  studies  have  taught  you  what  you  wanted 
to  know." 

Having  completed  her  package,  Lydia  stood 
in  the  attitude  of  a  neat  French  maid  in  a  play. 

"It's  the  model,  madam.  That's  where  the 
trouble  is.  An  adventuress  has  got  to  be  ... 
well,  just  so.  Did  madam  ever  see  Agnes  Dunham 
as  the  Russian  Countess  in  'The  Scarlet  Sin'? 
Well,  she's  it,  only  she's  too  old.  She  must  be 
thirty-five  if  she's  a  day.  I  don't  know  how 
many  times  I  didn't  go  see  her;  but  I  couldn't 
be  that  old,  and  then  she  talked  with  a  French 
accent,  so  that  settled  it.  Colonel  Stroud  said 
that  if  I  was  ever  going  to  do  the  thing  there  was 
only  one  woman  in  the  world — " 

"He  took  a  professional  interest  in  you,  then?" 

"Oh,  my,  yes;  professional  and  every  other 
way.  Still  does.  Awful  kind  he  can  be  when 
he  likes;  but  when  he  doesn't  like!  My!" 

I  was  sorry  for  Vio.  With  bloodless  lips  and 
strained  eyes  she  sat  grasping  the  arms  of  her 
chair  in  the  effort  to  keep  her  self-mastery.  Had 
I  loved  her  less  I  could  have  been  glad  of  this 
minute,  because  it  was  giving  me  what  might  be 
called  my  revenge.  But  I  loved  her  too  much. 
It  was  clear  to  me,  too,  that  I  loved  her  more  than 
I  ever  did.  My  return  had  been  a  shock  to  her, 
and  she  had  made  a  strenuous  effort  to  be  game. 
She  was  game.  She  had  not  fallen  short  of  the 
most  sporting  standard,  except  in  matters  over 
which  she  had  no  control. 

290 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Stroud  is  always  like  that,"  I  endeavored  to 
smile,  "giving  every  one  a  helping  hand.  He 
mayn't  be  the  wisest  old  dog  in  the  world,  but 
no  one  can  say  that  he  isn't  kind  and  faithful." 

As  it  happened  I  had  better  have  kept  quiet. 
Vio  sat  upright,  all  the  force  of  her  anger  turned 
upon  me. 

"Has  this  girl  been  anything  to  you?" 

"Yes,  madam;    a  mother." 

In  her  endeavor  to  control  herself  Vio  uttered 
a  hard  pant,  eying  the  girl  up  and  down. 

"Oh?  Indeed?  You're  young  to  be  ...  a 
mother!" 

"Only  a  little  younger  than  you,  madam;  and 
not  half  so  beautiful.  Madam  knows  that  any 
woman  worth  her  salt  is  mother  to  any  man  down 
on  his  luck.  I  don't  care  who  he  is,  or  who  she 


is." 


"Thank  you  for  the  information.  I  hope  Mr. 
Harrowby  has  appreciated  your  maternal  care." 

"Well,  he  did  and  he  didn't,  madam.  Just 
when  I  thought  he  was  going  to  buck  up  he — he 
cleared  out,  and  I  thought  he  must  be  dead. 
Now,  I  find  that — " 

"That  he's  alive.  If  you  had  come  to  me  I 
could  have  told  you  that — that  clearing  out  was 
his  specialty.  You  might  say  he  had  a  genius 
for  it,  if  you  weren't  compelled  to  call  it  by 
another  name." 

I  took  a  long  stride  toward  her. 

"Vio,  do  you  mean  anything  by  that?" 

"What  should  I  mean  but — but  the  fact? 
291 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

You're  a  mystery  to  me,  Billy,  just  as  you've 
evidently  been  to — to  this  young  lady.  At  the 
very  minute  when  we  hope,  as  she  so  pictu 
resquely  puts  it,  that  you're  going  to  buck  up, 
you — you  clear  out.  You  must  have  a  marvel 
ous  eye  for  your  opportunities  in  that  respect. 
That's  why  I  say  it  is  like  genius.  No  one  who 
didn't  have  a  genius  for  clearing  out,  still  to  call 
it  that,  could  so  neatly  have  seen  his  chance  at 
Bourg-la-Comtesse !" 

"Vio!" 

I  don't  know  what  I  was  about  to  do,  because 
with  my  own  shout  ringing  in  my  ears  I  became 
aware  that  Lydia  had  caught  me  by  the  arm. 

"Oh,  kid,  please  don't!" 

"Yes;  let  him."  Vio's  face  was  strained  up 
ward  toward  me,  but  otherwise  she  hadn't  moved. 
"  Men  who  run  away  from  other  men  are  always 
quick  to  strike  women." 

My  arm  fell.  I  bent  till  my  face  was  close  to 
hers. 

"When  did  I  ever  run  away?" 

Her  hand  was  thrown  out  in  the  imperious 
gesture  of  dismissal  I  had  seen  two  or  three  times 
already. 

"Please,  Billy!  We  won't  go  into  that. 
You'll — you'll  spare  me." 

"Vio,  you  believe  that?'9 

She  inclined  her  head  slowly. 

"That  I  was  a — a  coward — a  deserter?" 

She  inclined  her  head  again. 

"And  that  I — "  the  whole  plan  spread  itself 
292 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

out  before  me — "that  I  pretended  to  commit 
suicide  in  order  to  cover  up  my  tracks?" 

Once  more  she  bowed  her  head  relentlessly. 

" You  believe  that?" 

"Billy,  I  know  it.  Every  one  knows  it.  I've 
stood  by  you  right  up  to  now.  But  now — "  she 
rose  with  a  kind  of  majesty  from  which  I  backed 
away — "now  that  you've  brought  this  woman 
here,  into  my  house,  where  I've  been  fighting 
your  battles —  Oh,  Billy,  what  kind  of  a  man 
are  you  to  have — to  have  a  wife  like  me  ?" 

I  made  no  attempt  to  respond  to  this.  I  could 
only  stand  amazed  and  speechless.  Perhaps  a 
minute  had  gone  by,  perhaps  two  or  three  before 
I  found  myself  able  to  say: 

"All  right,  Vio.  Since  it's — since  it's  that  way, 
and  with  all  the  other  things— 

But  I  couldn't  go  any  farther.  There  was 
another  speechless  passage  of  time,  during  which 
we  could  only  stare  at  each  other,  regardless  of 
the  white  and  wide-eyed  spectator  of  the  scene. 

Turning  abruptly,  I  walked  down  the  long  hall 
toward  the  door  of  my  own  room.  As  I  did  so 
Vio  said  nothing,  but  Lydia  uttered  a  little  broken 
cry. 

"Oh,  kid,  /  don't  believe  it;  Harry  Drinkwater 
doesn't  believe  it  either.  Nobody  will  believe 
it  when  they've  had  a  word  with  me." 

But  I  didn't  thank  her.  I  didn't  so  much  as 
look  back.  It  was  only  by  degrees  that  I  learned, 
too,  what  the  two  women  said  to  each  other  when 
I  left  them  alone  together. 

293 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  was  packing  in  my  room  when  Boosey 
brought  me  a  letter.  As  letters  had  for  so  long 
been  to  me  a  thing  of  the  past  I  took  it  with  some 
curiosity,  recognizing  at  once  the  hand  of  my 
friend  Pelly. 

DEAR  SOAMES, — I  suppose  I  ought  to  call  you  Mr.  Har- 
rowby  now,  but  it  don't  somehow  come  natural.  Soames 
you  were  to  me  and  Soames  you  will  be  till  I  get  used  to 
the  other  thing,  which  I  don't  think  I  shall.  I  write  you 
these  few  lines  to  let  you  know  that  I  am  well  and  going 
just  the  same  as  ever,  though  I  miss  our  old  times  together 
something  fierce.  Would  like  to  know  how  you  are,  if  you 
ever  get  time  to  write.  Expect  you  are  having  a  swell  time 
with  all  the  gay  guys  in  Boston.  Friends  say  that  Boston 
is  some  sporty  town  when  you  get  with  the  inside  gang, 
which  I  don't  suppose  you  have  any  trouble  in  getting. 
Miss  Smith  has  no  one  yet  for  your  old  room,  which  is  all 
repapered  and  fine  with  a  brand-new  set  of  toadstools,  real 
showy  ones.  Mrs.  Leeming  is  sure  some  artist,  and  a  nice 
old  girl  besides,  when  she  doesn't  cry.  Had  a  very  nice 
time  at  Jim's  the  other  night;  just  a  quart  between  him  and 
Bridget  and  me;  nothing  rough-house,  but  all  as  a  gentle 
man  should.  Bridget  could  come,  as  his  wife  was  away 
burying  an  uncle  at  Bing  Hampton.  Hope  you  found  your 
wife  going  strong  as  this  leaves  mine  at  present.  Had  a 
very  nice  letter  from  her  the  other  day,  and  answered  it  on 
the  spot  telling  her  to  be  true  to  me  and  may  God  bring  her 
and  me  together  again  after  this  long  parting.  Now  no 
more  from 

your  friend, 

S.  PELLY.       Write  soon. 

It  is  impossible  to  tell  you  of  the  glow  that 
warmed  and  lighted  me  on  reading  these  friendly 
lines.  They  were  all  the  more  grateful  owing  to 
the  fact  that  if  Pelly  believed  of  me  what  Vio  and 

294 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

every  one  else  believed,  as  quite  possibly  he  did, 
it  would  have  made  no  difference.  Of  the  things 
taught  me  in  my  contact  with  the  less  sophisti 
cated  walks  in  life,  the  beauty  of  a  world  in  which 
there  is  comparatively  little  judging  was  the  most 
comforting.  There  were  all  kinds  of  jealousies 
there,  bickerings,  sulkings,  puerilities,  and  now 
and  then  a  glorious  free  fight;  but  condemnation 
was  rare.  The  bruised  spirit  could  be  at  peace 
in  this  large  charity,  and  in  the  spaciousness  of 
its  tolerance  the  humiliated  soul  could  walk  with 
head  erect.  Its  ideals  and  pleasures  might  be 
crude;  but  they  were  not  pharisaical. 

If  I  had  any  doubt  as  to  my  plans  I  had  none 
any  longer.  The  instinct  that  urged  me  back 
to  the  room  with  the  new  set  of  toadstools  was 
like  that  of  the  poor  bull  baited  in  the  ring  to 
take  refuge  amid  the  dumb,  sympathetic  herd 
of  its  own  kind.  I  asked  only  to  be  hidden 
there,  to  live  and  work,  or,  if  necessary,  die 
obscurely. 

Not  that  I  hadn't  had  a  first  impulse  to  try  and 
clear  my  name;  but  the  futility  of  attempting 
that  was  soon  apparent.  I  had  nothing  to  offer 
but  my  word,  and  my  word  had  been  rejected. 
In  the  course  of  the  two  or  three  hours  since  the 
scene  with  Vio  and  Lydia,  while  I  had  gone  to 
the  station  to  secure  a  berth  on  a  night  train  for 
New  York  and  dined  at  a  hotel,  I  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  effort  to  explain  would 
be  folly.  The  mere  fact  that  my  doings  between 
Bourg-la-Comtesse  and  the  Auvergne  were  still 

295 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

blurred  in  my  memory  would  make  any  tale  I 
told  incoherent  and  open  to  suspicion.  In  addi 
tion  to  that  Vio  knew,  Wolf  knew,  and  others 
knew  that  I  had  not  offered  my  services  to  the 
Ambulance  Corps  of  my  own  free  will,  while  my 
letters  had  painted  my  horror  of  the  sights  I  wit 
nessed  with  no  thought  of  reserve.  My  supposed 
suicide  being  ascribed  to  remorse,  the  discovery 
that  I  was  alive  and  well  and  in  hiding  in  New 
York- 
No;  the  evidence  against  me  was  too  strong. 
The  one  witness  who  might  say  something  in  my 
favor,  Doctor  Scattlethwaite,  had  himself  not 
believed  me.  He  could  say  that  the  claim  I  was 
putting  forth  now  I  had  put  forth  two  years  pre 
viously;  but  there  would  be  nothing  convincing 
in  that. 

Besides,  and  there  was  much  in  the  fact,  I 
wanted  to  get  away,  to  get  back  among  those  who 
trusted  me,  and  to  whom  I  felt  I  belonged.  If 
the  thread  of  flame  had  led  me  to  my  old  life  it 
was  only  to  show  me  once  for  all  that  there  was 
no  place  for  me  in  it.  Knowing  that,  I  could  take 
hold  of  the  new  life  more  whole-heartedly  and 
probably  do  better  work  there.  Already  new 
plans  were  springing  to  my  mind,  plans  which  I 
could  the  more  easily  put  into  operation  because 
of  having  some  money  at  my  disposal.  Mildred 
Averill  would  help  me  in  that  and  perhaps  I  could 
help  her.  If  Vio  secured  a  divorce,  and  I  should 
put  no  obstruction  in  the  way  of  that — 

But  Vio  herself  came  into  my  room  with  the 
296 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

calm  manner  and  easy  movement  which  in  no 
wise  surprised  me,  as  she  was  subject  to  such 
reactions  after  moments  of  excitement. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Billy ?" 

She  seated  herself  quietly. 

A  coat  being  spread  before  me  on  the  bed,  I 
folded  the  sleeves,  and  doubled  the  breasts  back 
ward. 

"I'm  packing." 

"What  for?" 

"Because  I'm  going  away." 

"When?" 

"To-night;  in  an  hour  or  so." 

"Whereto?" 

"New  York  first." 

"And  then?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Possibly  nowhere.  I  may 
stay  in  New  York.  Probably  I  shall." 

"And  not  come  back  here  any  more?" 

"That's  my  intention." 

"What  are  you  doing  it  for?" 

Taking  the  coat  I  had  folded  I  laid  it  in  my 
suit-case. 

"I  should  think  you'd  see." 

"Is  it — is  it  because  of — of  what  was  said  this 
afternoon?" 

"Partly." 

"Not  altogether?" 

Pulling  another  coat  from  the  closet  I  spread 
it  on  the  bed. 

"No;    not  altogether." 

"What  else  is  there?" 
297 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Oh,  nothing  that  you'd  be  interested  in.  I 
— I  just  want  to  get  away." 

"From  me?" 

"Only  in  the  sense  that — that  you're  part  of 
the  whole." 

"The  whole  what?" 

"The  whole  life.  It's  not  a  life  for  me  any 
more." 

She  did  not  deny  this  or  protest  against  it. 
For  a  minute  or  more  she  said  nothing,  though  as 
I  crossed  the  room  from  the  bed  to  the  closet  for 
more  clothes  I  saw  in  the  glass  that  she  furtively 
dashed  away  a  tear.  Yesterday  I  would  have 
been  touched  by  that;  but  now  that  I  knew  what 
she  believed  of  me,  what  she  had  been  believing 
of  me  during  all  the  weeks  since  I  had  come  home, 
my  heart  was  benumbed.  Besides,  if  she  was 
in  love  with  Dick  Stroud  there  was  no  reason  for 
my  feeling  pity. 

I  had  begun  on  collars  and  neckties  when  she 
said: 

"What  kind  of  a  girl  was  that  who  was  here 
this  afternoon?" 

"You  must  have  seen  something  of  her  for 
yourself.  I  understood  from  her  that  she'd  been 
coming  to  see  you." 

"She's  been  here  three  times.  Alice  Mount- 
ney  sent  her,  and  I  believe  Lulu  Averill  sent  her 
to  her.  I  had  no  idea  that  she  had  anything  in 
her  mind  than  just  to  sell  this  new  kind  of  corset." 

"And  had  she?" 

"Didn't  she  tell  you?" 
298 


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THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"She  didn't  tell  me.  If  she's  said  anything 
to  you,  I  don't  know  what  it  can  be." 

"She's  not — she's  not  crazy,  is  she?" 

"I  shouldn't  think  so.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Then  she's  extremely  peculiar." 

"We're  all  that  in  our  different  ways,  aren't 
we?" 

"I  don't  know  now  whether  to  take  her  seri 
ously  or  not." 

"What  about?" 

"  About— about— Dick." 

I  went  on  with  my  packing  without  answering. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  asked,  at  last.  "I 
suppose  you  have  an  opinion." 

"On  what  point?" 

"The  point  she  brought  up  ...  as  to  her 
knowing  him  ...  so  well." 

"I've  no  opinion  about  that.  I  know  she 
knows  him  .  .  .  very  well  indeed.  At  least, 
I  take  it  for  granted." 

"What  makes  you  do  that?" 

"Oh,  just  having  seen  them  together." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Why  should  I  have  done  that?  Men  don't 
— don't  give  each  other  away." 

"Then  in  his  knowing  her  there  was  something 
to — to  give  away." 

"Evidently." 

"Then  what  about  your  knowing  her  your 
self?" 

"That  was  different." 

"Different?     How?" 

299 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Since  she  was  pressing  the  question  I  decided 
not  to  spare  her. 

"I  didn't  wait  for  her  at  a  street  corner  as  a 
form  of  introduction." 

Expecting  the  question,  "And  did  he?"  I  was 
surprised  that  she  should  make  it.  "And  would 
it  be  discreet  to  inquire  what  your  form  of  intro 
duction  was  ?" 

"I  was  presented  to  her  in  all  propriety  by  a 
blind  boy  named  Drinkwater,  you  heard  her 
mention  him,  who  was  my  cabin-mate  on  the 
Auvergne.  He  and  Miss  Blair  and  I,  with  some 
other  people,  happened  to  sit  at  the  same  table. " 

"And  have  you  no  interest  in  her  besides  that  ?" 

"Yes:  she's  been  a  very  good  friend  to  me.  I 
haven't  seen  her  for  two  years  and  more;  but 
that  was  my  fault." 

"So  I  understand." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?' 

"That  if  you  had  no  interest  in  her  she  had  an 
interest  in  you,  strong  enough  to — to  impel  her 
to  make  my  acquaintance." 

"With  some  good  end  in  view,  presumably." 

"With  the  end  in  view  of  giving  me  the  infor 
mation  that — that  she  knew  Dick/ 

"And  do  you  call  that  taking  an  interest 
in  me?" 

"What  do  you  think  yourself?" 

Once  more  I  declined  to  give  my  impressions. 
Where  Stroud  was  concerned  I  had  nothing  to 
say.  Now  that  Vio  knew  something  of  the  truth 
concerning  him  I  wished  not  to  influence  her  in 

300 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

any  way.  The  matter  seemed  oddly  far  away 
from  me.  The  tie  between  Vio  and  myself  being 
broken  in  fact,  as  it  soon  would  be  in  law,  I  pre 
ferred  to  leave  the  subject  of  my  successor  where 
it  was. 

"Why  do  you  say,"  she  began  after  a  brief 
pause,  "that  this  is  not  a  life  for  you  any  more?" 

"Because  it  isn't." 

"But  why  isn't  it?" 

"  For  one  reason,  because  I  don't  like  it." 

"Oh!"  She  was  not  expecting  this  reply  and 
it  displeased  her.  "What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

"For  me,  everything.  But  it's  nothing  that 
you  would  understand." 

"I  suppose  I  could  understand  if  you  explained 


to  me." 


"No,  you  couldn't.  Or,  rather,  I  couldn't. 
The  language  isn't  coined  that  would  give  me  the 
words  to  tell  you.  It's  not  the  facts  of  the  life  I 
dislike;  it's  the  spirit  of  it." 

"Is  there  anything  wrong  with  the  spirit  of  it  ?" 

"I'm  not  saying  so.     I  merely  dislike  it  for 

myself.     For  me  it's  not  a  real  life  any  more.     I 

belong  to — to  simpler  people  with  less  complex 

ideas." 

"Less  complex  ideas  about  what?" 
"About  honor  for  one  thing."  In  my  goings 
and  comings  round  the  room  I  paused  in  front  of 
her.  "Among  my  friends,  my  real  friends,  you 
can  be  a  coward  or  a  deserter,  just  as  you  could 
be  a  murderer  or  a  thief,  and  no  one  would  pass 
judgment  upon  you." 

301 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"And  is  that  .  .  .  a  virtue  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  its  being  a  vir 
tue;  but  it  is  a  consolation." 

As  I  stood  looking  down  on  her  she  said,  softly: 

"Have  I  passed  judgment  upon  you?" 

"You've  been  a  brick,  Vio:  you've  been  a  hero 
ine.  The  only  difference  I  should  note  between 
you  and  the  people  to  whom  I'm  going  back  is 
that  you've  suppressed  your  condemnation,  and 
they  didn't  feel  it." 

"Did  they  .  .  .  know?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  they  knew,  for  the  reason 
that  it  wouldn't  have  mattered.  They  knew 
there  was  something  wrong  with  me,  that  I  was 
hiding  something,  that  I  was  probably  an  outcast 
of  good  family;  but  they  gave  me  a  great,  big 
affection  to  live  in,  and  thought  no  more  about 
it.  You've  given  me— 

There  was  an  extraordinarily  brilliant  flash  of 
her  dark  eyes  as  she  lifted  them  to  mine. 

"What?"  she  interjected.  "Have  you  any 
idea  of  what  I've  given  you?" 

fs  You've  given  me,"  I  repeated,  "the  great,  big 
affection  to  live  in,  but  with  something  in  it  that 
poisoned  the  air.  I'm  grateful  to  you,  Vio,  more 
grateful  than  I  can  begin  to  tell  you,  especially 
as  I  know  now  what  you've  been  thinking  all  the 
time;  but  you  can  easily  understand  that  I  prefer 
not  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  laden  with — " 

"If  we  purified  that,  the  atmosphere?  What 
then?" 

"It  still  wouldn't  be  everything.     When  I  say 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  don't  like  the  life,  it  isn't  just  because  it's  cast 
me  out;  it's  because  for  me — mind  you,  I'm  not 
speaking  of  any  one  else — it's  become  vapid  and 
— and  foolish,  and — and  a  throwing  away  of 


time." 


"And  what  do  you  find  among  the  people  you 
— you  call  your  friends  that's  more  worth  while?" 

"That's  what  it's  hard  to  tell  you.  I  find  the 
simple  and  elemental,  something  basic  and  funda 
mental  that  the  new  crisis  in  existence  is  telling 
us  to  discover  and — and  rectify.  You  remember 
what  I  said  a  month  or  more  ago  to  Stroud,  that 
our  building  was  collapsing?" 

"Yes;  and  I  hoped  you  were,  as  people  say, 
talking  through  your  hat." 

"Well,  I  wasn't.  The  building  is  coming 
down,  right  to  the  foundations.  Only  the  foun 
dations  will  remain." 

"They're  awfully  crude  foundations,  aren't 
they?" 

"Exactly.  That's  just  where  the  trouble  is. 
The  bases  of  our  life  are  ugly  and  unclean,  and 
so  we've  turned  away  and  refused  to  look  at  them. 
I'm  going  back,  Vio,  to  see  what  I  can  do  to  make 
them  less  ugly,  less  unclean,  and  more  secure  to 
build  on.  How  can  we  erect  a  society  on  foun 
dations  that  already  have  the  element  of  decay 
in  them  before  we've  added  the  first  layer  of  our 
superstructure?" 

Rising,  she  went  to  a  window,  leaning  against 
it  as  if  tired,  and  looking  out  into  the  darkness. 

"But  what  can  you  do,  all  by  yourself?" 
303 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Very  little;  but  a  little  is  something.  It 
isn't  altogether  the  success  or  the  failure  that  I'm 
thinking  about;  it's  the  principle." 

"Oh,  if  you're  going  to  live  by  principles—" 

"We've  got  to  live  by  something.  When  the 
world  is  coming  down  about  our  heads." 

"If  it's  doing  that,  one  man  can't  hold  it  up." 

"No;  but  a  good  many  men  may.  I'm  not 
the  only  one  who's  trying." 

"I  never  heard  of  any  one  trying  it  like  that 
...  by  going  back  to  the  foundational,  as  you 
call  it." 

"Oh,  I  think  you  have.  The  Man  who  more 
than  any  other  has  helped  the  human  race  did 
just  that  thing.  You're  strict  about  going  to 
church  on  Sunday." 

She  was  slightly  shocked.  "I  presume  you're 
not  going  to  try  to  be  like  Him." 

"Perhaps  not.  I  may  not  aim  so  high.  I'm 
only  pointing  out  the  fact  that  going  back  to  the 
foundational  and  beginning  there  again  was  His 
method.  Others  have  followed  it,  a  good  many. 
All  the  work  connected  with  what  we  call  Settle 


ments — " 


"I  never  could  bear  them." 

"Possibly;  but  that  isn't  the  point.  I'm  only 
saying  that  in  their  way  settlement  workers  have 
been  feeling  out  the  special  weakness  of  our  civ 
ilization,  and  doing  their  best  to  meet  it.  I 
suppose  our  politicians  and  clergymen  and  econo 
mists  have  been  doing  the  same.  The  trouble 
with  them  is  that  they  so  generally  nip  the  symp- 

304 


THE  THREAD  OF   FLAME 

torn  while  leaving  the  root  of  the  disease  that 
they  don't  accomplish  much." 

"Did  you  accomplish  much  yourself  when  you 
were — ?" 

"I  didn't  try.  I  didn't  see  what  I  was  there 
for.  It's  only  since  coming  back  here  that  I've 
begun  to  understand  why  I  was  led  the  way  I 


was." 


Half  turning  round,  she  said  over  her  shoulder: 

"Do  you  call  that  being  led?" 

I  replied  with  a  distinctness  which  I  tried  to 
make  significant: 

"Yes,  Vio;  I  call  it  being  led.  I  didn't  see 
it  till  I  got  back  here;  and  even  here  I  didn't  see 
it  till — till  this  afternoon.  And  now — now  I've 
done  with  all  this.  I've  done  with  the  easy, 
gentlemanly  life  of  spending  money  and  being 
waited  on.  I'm  not  saying  it  isn't  all  right;  it's 
only  not  all  right  for  me.  I've  got  something 
else  to  do.  There  was  a  time,  you  know  it  as 
well  as  I  do,  when  a  poor  man  was  an  offense  to 
me,  and  an  uncultivated  person  an  abhorrence. 
I  was  a  snob  from  every  point  of  view,  and  I  was 
proud  of  being  one.  And  now — " 

Pulling  down  the  shade  and  turning  completely 
round,  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the  window. 

"Yes,  Billy?     And  now?" 

"It's  no  use.  I  can't  tell  you.  I  couldn't  ex 
plain  if  I  used  up  all  the  words  in  the  dictionary. 
It's  just  a  tugging  in  my  heart  to  get  back 
where — "  I  had  a  sudden  inspiration.  "Read 
that,"  I  said,  taking  Felly's  letter  from  my  pocket. 
20  305 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She  stood  under  the  central  bunch  of  electrics 
while  I  closed  the  suit-case  and  fastened  the 
straps.  Having  finished  the  letter,  she  handed 
it  back  to  me. 

"Well?"  I  asked. 

"It's  just — just  a  common  person's  letter,  as 
far  as  I  see,  and  rather  coarse.  Boosey  might 
have  written  it,  or  Miles,  the  chauffeur." 

"And  that's  all  you  see  in  it?" 

"What  more  is  there  to  see?" 

"That's  just  it.  That's  just  where  the  inex 
plicable  thing  lies.  I  see,  or  rather  I  feel,  a 
tenderness  in  it  that  probably  no  one  could  detect 
but  myself.  Even  the  reference  to  drinking — " 

"The  quart." 

"Yes;  the  quart.  You've  got  to  remember 
how  small  the  margin  for  pleasure  is  in  a  life  like 
Sam's,  and  how  innocently  he  and  Bridget  and 
Jim  can  do  what  they  had  much  better  let  alone. 
They're  not  vicious;  they're  only — how  shall  I 
say  ? — they're  only  undeveloped.  We're  not  such 
saints  ourselves,  even  with  our  development;  and 
when  all  civilization  has  bent  its  efforts,  church 
and  state  together,  to  keep  their  minds  as  primi 
tive  as  possible  so  that  they'll  do  the  most  primi 
tive  kinds  of  work,  you  can't  blame  them  if  they 
take  their  pleasures  and  everything  else  primi 
tively.  We've  got  to  have  another  educational 
system." 

"But  they  say  our  educational  system  is  very 
good  as  it  is." 

"As  far  as  it  goes;  but  we  still  have  one  system 
306 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor,  and  we 
shall  never  get  equality  of  mind  till  we  have 
equality  of  educational  opportunity.  But  that's 
only  a  detail.  It  all  hangs  together.  As  far  as 
I'm  concerned,  it  sums  itself  up  in  the  urging  that 
takes  me  back  among  simple  people  because — 
because  I  love  them,  Vio;  that's  the  only  word 
for  it,  and  in  their  way  they've  loved  me." 

She  crossed  the  room  aimlessly. 

"Other — other  people  have — have  loved  you,  as 
you  call  it,  who — who  mayn't  have  been  simple." 

"Y-yes.  But — but  in  the  cup  they  handed  to 
me  there  were  bitter  ingredients.  In  the  cup 
I'm  talking  of  there  was  only  .  .  .  love.  It 
was  a  blind,  stumbling,  awkward,  mannish  love, 
if  you  like;  but  it  was  .  .  .  love.  It  was  the 
pure,  unadulterated  thing,  as  unconscious  of  it 
self  as  the  air  is.  The  girl  who  was  here  this 
afternoon  is  an  example  of  it.  For  anything  I 
know,  she  was  an  idiot  to  have  come;  but  she 
came,  poor  soul,  because  she  thought — " 

"Well,  what  did  she  think?" 

"That  if  Dick  Stroud  were  out  of  the  way  I 
should  have  a  better  chance  with  you." 

She  was  still  moving  aimlessly  about  the  room, 
picking  up  small  objects  and  putting  them  down 
again. 

"She  said — she  said  he'd  been  tagging  around 
after  her,  it's  her  expression,  for  nearly  three 
years." 

"To  my  practically  certain  knowledge  that 


is  so." 


307 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"She  said,  too,  that  she  could  marry  him  if 
she  liked,  but  that  she  didn't  want  to." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that." 

"If  she  went  with  him  at  all,  she  said,  it  would 
probably  be  ...  without  marriage,  as  she 
didn't  wish  to  be  bound  to  him." 

I  looked  up  in  curiosity. 

"And  did  she  say  there  was  any  possibility  of 
her  going  with  him  at  all?" 

"I  think  she  did.  That's  what  made  me  think 
her  touched  in  her  mind  or  crazy.  She  said  she 
hadn't  decided,  or  something  like  that;  but  as 
she  was  going  to  be  an  adventuress  she  had  to 
begin  some  time,  and  perhaps  it  might  as  well  be 
with  him  as  with  any  one  else.  She  spoke  as  if 
it  rested  entirely  with  her  to  take  him  or  throw 
him  away." 

Again  I  decided  to  be  cruel. 

"It  very  likely  does." 

She  was  standing  now  by  my  dressing-table, 
and  as  if  my  words  had  meant  nothing  to  her 
she  said: 

"Aren't  you  going  to  take  your  hair-brush?" 

"Oh,  I  was  forgetting  to  put  it  in.     Thanks." 

When  I  went  for  it  she  was  holding  it  in  her 
hand. 

"What  a  queer,  cheap-looking  thing!  Where 
on  earth  did  you  get  it?" 

"I  suppose  it  was  at  Tours,  with  the  other 
things,  when — " 

"Oh  yes!  I  remember."  She  moved  toward 
the  door.  "Your  other  brushes,  the  ebony  ones 

308 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

with  the  silver  initials,  that  I  gave  you  before— 
before  we  were  married,  are  here.  They  were 
with  the  things  found  on  the  bank  of  that — 
They  forwarded  them  to  me.  Shouldn't  you — 
shouldn't  you  like  them?" 

"Thanks,  no.  This  sort  of  common  thing 
suits  me  better." 

I  was  doing  the  last  things  about  the  room. 
She  was  standing  with  her  hand  on  the  knob  of 
the  door,  which  was  half  open. 

"And  when  you're  back  in  New  York,  Billy, 
doing  that  kind  of  thing  you  talk  about,  shall  you 
be  all  alone?" 

A  second's  reflection  convinced  me  that  it  was 
best  to  be  clear  about  everything. 

"At  first." 

"And  later?" 

I  pulled  open  a  drawer  from  which  I  knew  I 
had  taken  all  the  contents. 

"You  mean  when  we're  both  .  .  .  free?" 

"Suppose  I  put  it  ...  when  you're  free?" 

"Oh,  then  there  may  be  ...  some  one  else." 

"Some  one  ...  I  know?" 

I  delved  into  another  drawer,  hiding  my  face. 
"Some  one  you  may  have  heard  of;   but  I  don't 
—I  don't  think  you  know  her." 

When  I  had  pushed  in  the  drawer  I  raised  my 
self;  but  I  was  alone  in  the  room.  Ten  minutes 
later  I  had  left  the  house  without  a  good-by  on 
either  side. 

On  the  door-step,  in  my  working-man's  cos 
tume,  and  with  the  everlasting  bag  and  suit-case 

309 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

in  my  hands,  I  looked  up  at  a  starry,  windy  sky, 
with  the  trees  of  the  Common  tossing  beneath  it. 

"My  God,  what  an  end!"  I  cried,  inwardly. 

But,  as  far  as  my  knowledge  or  purpose  went, 
an  end  it  was. 


CHAPTER  II 

NOBLE  intentions  being  easier  to  conceive 
than  to  carry  out,  it  is  hardly  surprising 
that  on  settling  again  in  New  York  I  found  myself 
"let  down."  The  sense  of  adventure  was  out  of 
it,  while  that  of  the  mission  had  crept  in.  The 
old  friends  were  still  the  old  friends;  but  if  my 
intercourse  with  them  was  not  less  spontaneous 
it  was  certainly  more  self-conscious.  Back  in  my 
squint-eyed  room,  with  the  new  paper  and  the 
more  showy  set  of  fungi,  the  knowledge  that  I  was 
there  because  I  chose  to  be  there,  and  not  because 
I  couldn't  help  it,  marked  all  my  goings  and  com 
ings  with  a  point  of  interrogation. 

In  some  measure,  too,  it  was  a  point  of  dis 
approval.  That  is  to  say,  those  who  welcomed 
me  back  took  me  somewhat  in  the  spirit  of  a 
"returned  empty." 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,  if  you  want  it,5'  was  Miss 
Smith's  reply  to  my  request  to  have  my  old  room 
back  again;  but  her  intonation  was  not  wholly 
that  of  pleasure.  "We  thought,  my  sister  and  I, 
that  your  social  duties  in  Boston  would  restrict 
your  movements  for  the  future." 

I  had  pricked  their  little  bubble  of  romance* 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

and  they  were  disappointed.  That  one  who  had 
been  their  lodger  was  now  with  the  Olympian 
gods  was  a  tale  to  be  told  as  long  as  they  had  a 
room  to  let,  and  to  every  one  who  rented  one. 
I  saw  at  once  that  I  couldn't  ask  them  to  believe 
that  I  had  come  back  of  my  own  free  will.  The 
very  magnitude  of  my  hopes  compelled  me  to  be 
silent  with  regard  to  them. 

"Punk!"  was  Felly's  comment,  when  I  braced 
myself  to  tell  him  I  had  found  home  life  disillu 
sioning. 

That  was  across  the  table  of  the  familiar  eating- 
house,  as  we  took  our  first  meal  together.  I  was 
obliged  to  explain  myself  for  the  reason  that  in 
the  back  of  his  mind,  also,  I  read  the  conviction 
that  I  hadn't  "made  good."  Compelled  to  be 
more  primitive  than  I  should  have  liked,  I  had  to 
base  my  dissatisfaction  on  the  grounds  of  physi 
cal  restriction  rather  than  on  those  of  divine  dis 
content. 

"Some  of  them  Boston  women  will  put  the  lid 
on  a  man  and  lock  it  down,"  he  observed  further. 
"  Punk,  I  call  it.  Well,  now  that  you've  broken 
loose,  and  with  your  wad,  I  suppose  you'll  be 
givin'  yourself  a  little  run." 

I  allowed  him  to  make  this  assumption,  thank 
ful  that  he  should  understand  me  from  any  point 
of  view;  but  it  was  not  the  point  of  view  of  our 
former  connection.  That  a  man  should  be  down 
on  his  luck  was  one  thing;  but  that,  having  got 
on  his  feet,  he  should  deliberately  become  a  waster 
was  another.  In  any  light  but  that  of  a  reversion 

312 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

to  low  tastes  I  could  never  have  made  Sam  see  my 
return  to  the  house  in  Meeting-House  Green. 
For  low  tastes  he  had  the  same  toleration  as  for 
misdemeanors;  but  he  did  not  disguise  the  fact 
that  for  a  man  who  had  got  his  chance  he  con 
sidered  them  low  tastes. 

At  Creed  &  Creed's  I  received  a  similar  tem 
pered  welcome. 

"Sure  here's  Brogan,"  Bridget  called  out  to 
the  other  men,  on  seeing  me  enter  the  cavern 
where  four  of  them  were  at  the  accustomed  work 
of  sweeping  a  consignment  that  had  just  been 
unpacked.  Burlap  and  sheepskins  were  still 
strewn  about  the  floor,  so  that  I  had  to  restrain 
the  impulse  to  pick  things  up  and  stack  them. 

Perhaps  I  can  best  compare  my  return  to  that 
of  a  spirit  which  has  passed  to  a  higher  sphere 
and  chooses  to  be  for  a  short  time  re-embodied. 
Denis,  the  Finn,  and  a  small  wiry  man,  a  stranger 
to  me,  all  drew  near  to  stare  solemnly.  My  visit 
could  only  be  taken  as  a  condescension,  not  as  a 
renewed  incorporation  into  the  old  life.  From 
that  I  had  been  projected  forever  by  the  sheer 
fact  of  not  having  to  earn  a  living  in  this  humble 
way. 

"Aw,  but  it's  well  you're  lookin',"  Gallivan 
said,  awesomely 

"And  why  shouldn't  he  be  lookin'  well," 
Bridget  demanded,  "and  him  with  more  butter 
than  he's  got  bread  to  spread  it  on  ?" 

"It's  different  with  us,"  the  Finn  said,  bitterly, 
"with  no  butter  and  not  enough  bread,  and  more 

313 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

mouths  to  feed  than  can  ev^r  be  filled.  I'll  bet 
you  Brogan  doesn't  think  of  them,  now  that  he's 
got  his  own  belly  full." 

It  seemed  to  me  an  opening. 

"Well,  suppose  I  did?  Suppose  I'd  come  back 
to  hand  down  some  of  the  butter?" 

"Aw,  cut  it  out,  Brogan,"  the  Finn  laughed, 
joylessly.  "I  was  only  kiddin'  you.  We  don't 
pass  the  buck,  none  of  us  don't.  What  you 
got,  keep;  and  if  you  don't,  then  the  more 
fool  you." 

In  Denis's  yearning  eyes  were  the  only  signs 
of  remote  comprehension  in  the  company. 

"Sure  ye  don't  have  to  pass  the  buck  just  be 
cause  y*  ask  the  saints  to  pray  for  ye,  do  ye? 
Pray  for  us,  Brogan.  Ye've  got  nothing  else  to 
do." 

It  was  another  opening. 

"I  wish  I  had,  Denis.  I've  found  that  I  don't 
know  how  to  loaf.  If  you  hear  of  anything — " 

He  nodded,  with  beatified  aspiration  in  his 
leathery  old  face. 

"Aw,  then,  if  it's  that  way  you  feel,  the  Holy 
Mother  '11  find  ye  something,  Protestant  though 
y'  are,  just  as  sure  as  she  showed  ould  Biddy 
Murphy,  and  her  a  Protestant  too,  that  me 
mother  knew  in  Ireland  where  there  was  two- 
and-sixpence  lyin'  in  the  mud,  and  she  with  the 
rent  comin'  due  the  next  mornin'.  This  is  the 
new  Brogan,"  he  continued,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  toward  the  dark,  wiry  man,  who  responded 
with  a  grin.  "  He  can't  talk  our  talk  hardly  not  at 

3H 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

all,  not  no  more  than  the  monkey  I  used  to  tell 
you  about.  A  Pole  he  calls  hisself;  but  I  nivver 
heard  of  no  such  nation  as  that  till  I  come  to  this 
country.  We  nivver  had  them  in  Ireland  at  all 
—at  all.  There  was  Ulster  men,  and  Munster  men, 
and  men  from  the  County  Monaghan;  but  I  niv 
ver  heard  tell  of  no  Poles.  Do  you  think  they's 
have  sowls  like  us?  Or  would  they  be  like  them 
Chinees  and  Japansey  men?" 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  here's  the  Floater,"  Bridget 
warned,  softly,  and  every  man  got  back  to  his 
work. 

Back  at  their  work  they  had  no  time  for  further 
conversation;  and  in  some  way,  impossible  for  me 
to  tell  you  in  words,  I  felt  myself  eliminated  from 
their  fellowship.  They  would  always  be  friendly; 
but  the  knowledge  that  I  was  bone  of  their  bone 
and  flesh  of  their  flesh,  which  had  once  been  the 
outcome  of  a  common  need,  was  no  longer  theirs 
nor  mine.  I  could  look  in  at  them  in  this  non 
committal  way  as  often  as  I  chose;  but  I  should 
never  get  any  farther. 

Something  of  the  sort  was  manifest  when  I  next 
met  Lydia  Blair.  Our  standing  toward  each 
other  was  different.  Little  as  she  had  understood 
me  before,  she  understood  me  less  in  this  new  role 
than  in  any  other. 

"You  sure  are  the  queerest  guy  I  ever  met," 
she  said,  at  one  time  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
"I  sometimes  wonder  if  you're  all  there." 

But  that  was  after  I  had  been  foolish  enough 
to  try  to  make  her  see  my  point  of  view  toward 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

life,  and  failed.  Before  that  she  had  been  sym 
pathetic. 

Our  first  conversation  had  been  over  the  tele 
phone,  when  I  had  called  up  Clotilde's  to  ask  if 
Miss  Blair  had  returned  from  Boston. 

"Miss  Blair  at  the  'phone,"  was  the  reply. 
"Who's  this?" 

Somewhat  timidly  I  said  I  was  Mr.  Harrowby, 
repeating  the  name  twice  before  she  recognized 
it  as  mine.  Having  invited  her  to  dine  with  me 
and  go  to  the  theater  I  got  a  quavering,  "Sure!" 
which  lacked  her  usual  spontaneity 

"You  don't  seem  pleased,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  pleased  enough.  I'm  only  wonder 
ing  if — if  you  are." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be,  when  I've  asked  you?" 

"Well,  I  put  my  foot  in  it  for  fair,  didn't  I?" 

"You  mean  in  Boston  ?  Oh,  that  was  all  right. 
I  know  you  meant  to  do  me  a  good  turn;  and 
perhaps  you've  done  it." 

"Oh,  I  meant  to;  but  I  sure  did  get  a  lesson. 
My  mother  used  to  tell  me  to  keep  my  fingers  out 
of  other  people's  pies;  and  I'm  going  to  from  this 


time  on." 


In  the  evening,  seated  opposite  me  at  the  little 
table  at  Josephine's,  with  the  din  of  a  hundred 
diners  giving  us  a  sort  of  privacy,  she  told  me 
more  about  it. 

"You  see,  it  was  this  way:  He'd  always  been 
talking  to  me  about  this  rich  young  Boston 
widow  he'd  met  at  Palm  Beach,  trying  to  get  my 
mad  up." 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  did  he  say  of  her?0 

"Well,  the  sort  of  thing  he  would  say.  He's 
a  good  judge  of  a  woman,  you  must  admit;  and 
he  thought  she  was  about  the  classiest.  It  was 
when  I  began  to  tell  him  what  I  wanted  to  be  that 
he  sprang  that  on  me,  said  she  was  the  model  for 
me  to  study,  and  that  when  it  came  to  the  dressy 
vampire  Agnes  Dunham  wasn't  in  it." 

"Did  he  call  this — this  Boston  lady  a  dressy 
vampire?" 

"Oh,  he  didn't  mean  that.  It  was  only  that 
for  any  one  who  wanted  to  be  a  dressy  vampire 
she  was  a  smart  style.  A  vampire  mustn't  look 
a  vampire,  or  she  might  as  well  go  out  of  business. 
The  one  thing  I  criticized  in  Agnes  Dunham  in 
'The  Scarlet  Sin'  was  that  a  woman  who  adver 
tised  herself  so  much  as  an  adventuress  wouldn't 
get  very  far  with  her  adventuring." 

"I  see.     You'd  go  in  for  a  finer  art." 

"I'd  go  in  for  pulling  the  thing  off,  whatever 
it  was;  but  that's  not  what  I  want  to  tell  you. 
To  go  back  to  what  he  was  always  saying  about 
this  Boston  lady,  it  made  me  crazy  to  see  her. 
In  the  corset  business  I'd  got  intimate  with  a  good 
many  society  women,  and  most  of  them  were 
gumps.  For  one  good  vampire  there  were  a  hun 
dred  with  the  kick  of  a  boiled  potato.  That 
made  me  all  the  crazier  to  see,  and  I  thought 
about  it  and  thought  about  it.  Then,  one  day, 
Harry  called  me  on  the  'phone  to  say —  You  see, 
he's  living  with  the  Averills,  and  when  that  Mrs. 
Mountney —  Well,  when  he  told  me  who  you 

317 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

were,  and  that  the  lady  wasn't  a  widow  any  more 
than  I  am,  well,  I  simply  laid  down  and  passed 
away.  To  think  that  you,  the  fellow  we'd  been 
putting  down  as  a  mystery  and  a  swell  crook — " 

"What  did  you  put  me  down  for  then  when 
you  found  out?" 

"We  didn't  get  a  line  on  it  all  at  once.  That 
was  later.  Mrs.  Mountney  told  Lulu,  and  Dick 
Stroud  told  me,  and  so — 

"Did  you  all  believe  what  you  heard?" 

"It  was  pretty  hard  not  to,  wasn't  it?  after  the 
queer  things  you'd  been  doing.  There  was  just 
one  person  who  stuck  it  out  that  it  wasn't  true; 
and  that  was  little  Milly.  She  didn't  say  much 
to  the  family;  but  to  me  she  declared  that  if  all 
the  armies  in  France  were  to  swear  to  it,  she'd 
still  know  there  was  some  mistake.  She's  another 
one  I  can't  make  out." 

"What  can't  you  make  out  about  her?" 

"Whether  she's  got  a  heart  in  her  body,  or 
only  a  hard-boiled  egg." 

"Oh,  I  fancy  she  has  a  heart  all  right." 

"I  used  to  fancy  the  same  thing,  or  rather  I 
took  it  for  granted;  but  ever  since —  Well,  she 
just  stumps  me." 

She  reverted  to  her  errand  in  Boston  and  what 
came  of  it. 

"It  wasn't  till  I  began  to  hear  of  what  was 
going  on  there  that  it  seemed  to  me — "  the  veil 
of  tears  to  which  her  eyes  were  liable  descended 
like  a  distant  mist — "that  it  seemed  to  me  a 
darned  shame." 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  seemed  to  you  a  darned  shame  in 
particular?" 

"Well,  first  that  Dick  Stroud  should  be  pulling 
the  wool  over  any  other  woman's  eyes,  especially 
a  rich  one,  and  then  that  he  should  be  upsettin' 
your  apple-cart  when  you'd  had  so  much  trouble 
already.  After  that  it  all  came  easy." 

"What  came  easy?" 

"Getting  to  know  Mrs.  Harrowby,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  The  first  once  or  twice  I  didn't  see  how 
to  bring  in  Dick  Stroud's  name  without  seeming 
to  do  it  on  purpose;  but  after  I  met  you  in  the 
up-stairs  hall,  why  it  was  just  natural.  Say, 
you  copped  a  peach  when  you  got  married;  do 
you  know  it?" 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  I've  got  eyes  in  my  head;  and,  say, 
she's  the  one  I  saw  you  with  that  time  I  told  you 
about,  ever  so  long  ago,  and  it  must  have  been 
in  New  York.  I  suppose  some  guy  had  taken 
me  to  a  swell  restaurant  to  blow  me  in  for  a  din 
ner;  but  anyhow  she  was  the  one.  The  minute 
I  saw  her  back  I  knew  there  were  not  two  such 
speaking  backs  in  the  world.  As  for  me  modeling 
myself  on  her,  well,  an  old  hour-glass  pair  of  stays 
might  as  well  try  to  be  Clotilde's  Number  Three 
Coar  Pearl.  And,  say,  she's  some  sport,  isn't 
she?  When  I  told  her  more  about  Dick  Stroud 
and  me,  after  you'd  gone  away  that  afternoon, 
she  never  turned  a  hair.  Mrs.  Mountney  says 
she  was  going  to  marry  him  if  you  hadn't  turned 
up,  and  even  now  he's  hoping  to  marry  her;  but 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

when  I  let  her  have  the  whole  bunch  of  truth,  she 
took  it  like  a  rag  doll  will  take  a  pin-prick.  Never 
moved  a  muscle,  or  showed  that  it  wasn't  just  my 
story,  and  not  a  bit  her  own.  Of  course  I  took 
my  cue  from  that — it  was  my  line  all  along — and 
was  just  the  poor  working-girl  telling  her  life  his 
tory  to  a  sympathetic  lady,  just  as  they  hand  it 
out  in  books;  but  she  carried  the  thing  off  some 
thing  swell.  In  fact,  she  made  me  more  than 
half  think—" 

"What?"  I  questioned,  when  she  held  her  idea 
suspended  there. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  tell  you.  There  are  things 
a  man  had  better  find  out  for  himself;  do  you 
know  it?" 

"I  sha'n't  find  out  anything  for  myself,"  I 
said,  "because — because  I've  given  up  the  fight." 

She  stared  at  me  with  eyes  wide  open  in  incred 
ulous  horror. 

"You've  given  up  the  fight  for  a  peach  like 
that!  Well,  of  all  the  poor  boobs!"  Leaning 
back  in  her  chair  she  scanned  my  appearance. 
"I  thought  there  was  something  wrong  when  I 
saw  you  got  up  like  that.  You  can  beat  Walter 
Haines,  the  quick-change  man,  when  it  comes  to 
clothes,  believe  me.  What  have  you  got  on 
now?" 

I  explained  that  it  had  been  my  Sunday  suit 
during  the  time  I  had  been  working  at  Creed  & 
Creed's. 

"Then  for  Gawd's  sake  go  and  take  it  off,  be 
fore  we  start  for  the  theater.  I'll  wait  for  you 

320 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

here.  You  can  go  and  come  in  a  taxi.  I've  been 
looking  at  you  all  along,  and  thinking  it  must  be 
the  latest  wrinkle  from  Boston.  Boston  has 
funny  ways,  now  hasn't  it?  And  so — " 

It  was  here  that  I  ventured  on  the  exposition 
of  my  new  scheme^ef  life,  getting  no  appreciation 
beyond  the  question  as  to  my  sanity  quoted 
above.  Later  in  the  evening  as,  after  the  theater, 
I  drove  her  back  to  Miss  Flowerdew's  in  a  taxi, 
she  summed  up  the  situation  thus: 

"Look-a-here!  I  never  did  take  stock  in  that 
bum  story  of  your  being  a  quitter  on  the  battle 
field;  but  now  I  sure  will  if  you  walk  out  and 
hand  the  show  over  to  Dick  Stroud.  Why,  he's 
worth  two  of  you !  Look  how  he  sticks !  He'll 
get  me  one  of  these  days,  just  by  his  sticking,  if 
I'm  not  careful;  and  when  it  comes  to  a  woman 
like  that —  Why,  I'm  ashamed  to  go  round  with 
such  a  guy.  And  say,  the  next  time  you  ask  me 
to  dinner,  you'll  not  be  got  up  like  the  bogie-man 
dressed  for  his  wife's  funeral.  You'll  look  like 
you  did  the  other  day  in  Boston,  or  the  first  time 
I  saw  you,  or  it  will  be  nix  on  little  Lydia." 

Drinkwater's  tone  was  similar  and  yet  differ 
ent.  It  was  different  in  that  while  his  premises 
as  to  "sticking"  coincided  with  Lydia's,  his  con 
clusions  were  not  the  same. 

Perhaps  he  was  not  the  same  Drinkwater. 
More  than  two  years  having  passed  since  I  had 
seen  him,  I  found  in  him  more  than  two  years  of 
development.  A  crude  boy  when  last  we  had 
met,  association  with  a  man  like  Averill,  com- 
21  321 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

bined  with  his  own  instinct  for  growth,  had  made 
him  something  of  a  man  of  the  world  not  the  less 
sympathetic  for  his  honest  pug-face  and  his  blind 
ness.  The  fact  that  he  asked  me  to  dine  with 
him  at  his  university  club  was  an  indication  of 
progress  in  itself. 

He  gave  me  his  confidences  before  I  offered 
mine,  sketching  a  career  in  which  stenography 
figured  as  no  more  than  the  handmaid  to  a  pas 
sion  for  biological  research.  From  many  of  the 
details  of  research  he  was,  of  course,  precluded  by 
his  blindness;  but  his  methodical  habits,  his  mem 
ory,  and  his  faculty  for  induction  had  more  than 
once  put  Averill  on  the  track  of  one  thing  when 
looking  for  another.  It  was  thus  that  they  had 
discovered  the  ophida  parotidea  while  experi 
menting  for  the  germ  of  the  Spanish  influenza. 
Incidentally,  his  salary  had  been  creeping  upward 
in  proportion  as  he  made  himself  more  useful. 

"And  Lydia's  been  a  wonder,"  he  declared, 
his  face  shining.  "Talk  about  sticking!  The 
way  that  girl's  stuck  to  me  in  every  kind  of  tight 
place !  Always  thinking  of  other  people  and  how 
to  pull  them  out  of  the  holes  they  get  into!  In 
the  Middle  Ages  she'd  have  been  a  saint.  Now 
she's  just  an  up-to-date  New  York  girl." 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  this  rhapsody  I 
was  ready  to  tell  him  a  part  of  my  own  life  tale, 
on  which  I  found  him  more  responsive  than  any 
one  I  had  met.  As  to  my  mental  misfortunes  in 
France  he  accepted  the  narrative  without  ques 
tioning.  When  I  came  to  what  I  painted  as 

322 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

domestic  conditions  outlived  on  both  sides  he 
passed  the  topic  over  with  the  lightness  born  of 
tact.  You  see  it  was  an  altogether  older  and 
more  serious  Drinkwater  with  whom  I  had  to 
deal;  and  yet  one  not  less  enthusiastic. 

I  discovered  this  when,  with  much  misgiving, 
I  hinted  at  the  task  to  which  I  wished  to  dedicate 
anything  left  in  my  life. 

"  You've  got  it,  old  boy,"  he  half  shouted,  slap 
ping  his  leg.  "There  are  three  or  four  big  jobs 
through  which  we  white  Americans  have  got  to 
save  our  country,  and  among  them  the  free  play 
of  class-contribution  is  almost  the  first.  Say, 
these  fellows  that  go  jazzing  about  class  welfare 
get  my  goat.  Class  co-operation  is  what  we 
want;  and  it's  what  classes  come  into  existence 
to  give.  You  can't  suppress  classes,  not  yet 
awhile  at  any  rate,  in  a  country  full  of  inequali 
ties;  but  what  we  can  do  is  to  get  the  classes  that 
form  themselves  spontaneously  to  take  their  gifts 
and  pass  'em  on  to  each  other.  Each  works  out 
something  that  another  doesn't,  and  so  can  bene 
fit  the  bunch  all  round.  Say,  Jasper,  you'll  hit 
the  nail  of  one  of  our  biggest  national  weaknesses 
right  on  the  head  as  soon  as  you've  learned  how 
to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  but  the  learning  how  to  do  it  is  just  where 
the  hitch  seems  to  come  in.  I've  been  in  New 
York  three  weeks  and  I'm  just  where  I  was  when 
I  came." 

"Say,  I'll  give  you  a  line  on  that.  Do  you 
know  how  a  young  fellow  in  a  country  town — I 

323 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

don't  know  anything  about  swell  places  like  New 
York — becomes  a  barber?" 

I  said  I  didn't,  that  I  had  never  given  a  thought 
to  the  subject. 

"Well,  he  doesn't  learn,  and  nobody  ever 
teaches  him.  He  just  sits  round  in  the  barber 
shop,  brushing  hats  and  hanging  up  overcoats, 
and  wishing  to  the  Lord  he  was  a  barber,  and  all 
of  a  sudden  he  is  one.  He's  watched  the  shaves 
and  hair-clips,  hardly  knowing  he's  been  doing  it, 
but  wishing  like  blazes  all  the  while,  and  at  last 
it  comes  to  him  like  song  to  a  young  bird.  Now 
you've  got  to  sit  round.  Sit  tight  and  sit  round. 
Wish  and  watch,  and  watch  and  wish,  and  the 
divine  urge  that  turns  a  youngster  into  a  barber, 
because  that's  what  he's  got  his  heart-  on,  will 
steer  you  into  the  right  way.  This  isn't  going 
to  be  anything  you  can  learn,  as  you'd  learn  to 
drive  a  motor  or  dissect  a  dead  body.  It  won't 
be  a  profession,  it'll  be  a  life,  that'll  show  you  the 
trick.  Don't  try  to  hurry  things,  Jasper;  and 
don't  expect  that  three  weeks  or  three  months 
or  three  years  are  going  to  make  this  mum  old 
world  fork  you  out  its  secrets.  Just  stick,  and 
if  you  don't  do  the  thing  you're  aiming  at  you'll 
do  another  just  as  useful.  Why,  the  doctor  was 
going  to  chuck  all  his  experiments  on  the  influ 
enza  bug  when  I  persuaded  him  to  keep  at  it;  and 
so  he  discovered  the  thing  that  scientists  have 
been  after  since  DockendorfF thought  he'd  tracked 
it  down  as  long  ago  as  1893.  All  sticking!" 


CHAPTER  III 

I  CONFESS  that  I  was  comforted  by  these 
hearty  words,  and  braced  in  a  determination 
that  was  beginning  to  splutter  out.  Drinkwater's 
divine  urge  was  not  unlike  my  own  thread  of  flame 
and  Denis's  Holy  Mother,  who  was  a  light  even 
to  the  feet  of  Protestants.  It  was  the  same  prin 
ciple — that  of  a  guide,  an  impulse,  an  illumina 
tion,  which  our  own  powers  could  generate  when 
lifted  up  to,  and  associated  with,  the  universal 
beneficence.  I  decided  to  take  his  formula, 
"  Wish  and  watch,  and  watch  and  wish/'  as  the  de 
vice  of  my  knight-errantry.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
by  the  sheer  process  of  wishing  I  secured  a  second 
ary  position  for  myself  in  the  textile  department 
of  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  while  by  that  of 
watching  I  found  that  one  of  Bridget's  boys  and 
two  of  the  Finn's  had  aptitudes  highly  worth 
developing  right  along  this  line.  It  wasn't  much ; 
but  it  was  a  beginning  in  the  way  in  which  I 
hoped  to  go,  and  might  lead  to  something  more. 
In  all  this  time,  as  you  can  imagine,  Vio  was 
my  ruling  thought,  and  guessing  her  intentions 
my  daily  occupation.  Since  she  presumably 
wanted  a  divorce,  there  were  doubtless  grounds 

325 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

on  which  she  could  secure  one  by  going  the  right 
way  to  work;  but  as  to  whether  she  was  doing 
this  or  not  nothing  had  yet  been  said  to  me. 
Nothing  was  said  to  me  of  any  kind.  I  had  not 
written  to  her,  nor  had  she  to  me;  and  my  other 
communication  with  Boston  was  only  through 
my  bankers.  Even  that  was  growing  more  ir 
regular  since  I  had  changed  my  business  address 
to  Meeting-House  Green. 

What  I  was  chiefly  seeking  was  forget  fulness. 
Lydia  had  reproached  me  with  being  a  "poor 
boob"  in  giving  up  the  struggle  for  Vio's  love; 
but  Lydia  hadn't  known  the  wound  Vio  had  in 
flicted.  The  more  I  thought  of  that  the  more 
I  felt  it  due  to  the  dignity  of  love  to  attempt 
neither  explanation  nor  defense.  On  mere  cir 
cumstantial  evidence  Vio  had  believed  me  guilty 
of  the  crime  she  would  probably  have  rated  as  the 
blackest  in  the  calendar.  I  couldn't  forgive  that. 
I  had  no  intention  of  forgiving  it.  The  more  I 
loved  her  the  less  I  could  forget  that  she  had 
returned  my  love  in  this  way.  The  most  chival 
rous  thing  I  could  do,  the  most  merciful  toward 
her,  and  the  most  tender  was  what  I  was  doing.  I 
could  leave  her  without  a  contradiction,  so  justi 
fying  tacitly  whatever  she  may  have  thought, 
and  putting  no  restraint  on  her  future  liberty  of 
action. 

I  said  so  to  Mildred  Averill  when  we  talked  it 
over  about  the  middle  of  March.  I  had  not  in 
tended  to  renew  this  connection  unless  a  sign  was 
made  from  the  other  side;  but  it  was  given  in  the 

326 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

form  of  a  line  from  Miss  Averill  begging  me  to 
come  and  see  her  in  the  apartment  she  had  taken 
for  herself  in  Park  Avenue,  where  at  last  she  had 
a  little  home.  Knowing  that  my  duties  kept  me 
at  the  Museum  on  week-days  she  had  fixed  the 
time  for  a  Sunday  afternoon. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  we  had  met  in  the 
previous  December,  so  that  I  found  little  change 
in  her  now.  As  I  had  noticed  then,  she  had 
grown  more  spiritual,  with  an  expression  of  rest- 
fulness  and  peace. 

"That's  because  I  don't  struggle  so  much," 
she  explained,  in  answer  to  my  remark  on  this 
change;  "I  don't  fight  so  much.  I'm  not  nearly 
the  rebel  I  used  to  be." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you've  made  up  your 
mind  to  let  things  go?" 

"No;  to  let  things  come.  That's  what  I 
wouldn't  do  before.  I  wanted  to  hurry  them,  to 
force  them,  to  drag  them  along.  I  begin  to  see 
that  life  has  its  own  current  upward,  and  that 
we  succeed  best  by  getting  into  it  and  letting 
it  carry  us  onward." 

"But  doesn't  that  theory  tend  to  take  away 
one's  own  initiative?" 

"I  don't  know  that  initiative  is  any  good  if  it's 
directed  the  wrong  way.  Did  you  ever  watch  a 
leaf  being  carried  down-stream?  As  long  as  it's 
in  the  current  it  goes  swiftly  and  safely.  Then 
something  catches  it  and  throws  it  into  some  little 
side-pool  or  backwater,  where  it  goes  fretting  and 
swirling  and  tearing  itself  to  pieces  and  never 

327 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

getting  anywhere.  Well,  it's  something  like  that. 
I  was  in  a  side-pool,  lashing  round  and  round  and 
churning  my  spirit,  such  as  it  is,  into  nervous  irri 
tations  of  every  kind,  making  myself  the  more 
furious  because  my  efforts  were  to  no  purpose." 

"And  how  did  you  get  out  into  the  current 
again?" 

"By  wishing,  in  the  first  place.  It  began  to 
seem  to  me  such  a  foolish  thing  that,  being  given 
all  the  advantages  in  the  world,  I  could  do  noth 
ing  but  frustrate  them.  I  was  like  a  person  with 
a  pack  of  cards  in  his  hand,  not  knowing  how  to 
play  any  game.  I  longed  to  learn  one,  even  the 
simplest;  and  I  think  it  was  the  idea  of  the  sim 
plest  that  saved  me." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  get  that,  the  simplest." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  abstruse  or  original.  I  sup 
pose  it's  no  more  than  the  accepted  principle  of 
doing  the  duty  that's  nearest.  Hitherto,  I'd 
felt  that  nothing  was  a  real  duty  but  what  was 
far  away.  Then  I  began  to  see  that  right  under 
our  own  roof —  You  see,  Boyd  and  Lulu  weren't 
very  happy,  and  I'd  been  leaving  them  to  shift 
for  themselves  while  I  tried  to  do  things  for 
people  like  Lydia  Blair  and  Harry  Drinkwater, 
and  a  lot  of  others  who  were  perfectly  well  able 
to  take  care  of  themselves.  So  I  began  to  won 
der  if  I  couldn't  .  .  .  and  to  wish.  .  .  .  And  it's 
so  curious!  The  minute  I  did  that  the  things  I 
could  do  were  right  there  just  as  if  they'd  been 
staring  me  in  the  face  for  years,  and  I  hadn't  had 
the  eyes  to  see  them." 

328 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"What  sort  of  things?" 

"Oh,  hardly  worth  naming  when  it  comes  to 
words.  Not  big  things,  little  things.  If  Lulu 
wanted  something  she  couldn't  find  in  New  York, 
a  particular  sort  of  scarf  or  piece  of  music,  no 
matter  what,  I'd  tell  Boyd  and  he'd  send  for  it; 
and,  of  course,  you  see!  Or  if  Lulu  said  anything 
nice  about  Boyd,  which  she  did  now  and  then,  I'd 
make  it  a  point  of  telling  him.  That's  the  sort 
of  thing,  nothing  when  you  come  to  talk  about  it, 
and  yet  in  practice —  That's  what  I  mean  by  the 
simplest,  the  easiest,  and  most  natural;  and  so 
I  formed  a  kind  of  principle." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  it  is?" 

"Only  that,  whoever  you  are,  your  work  is 
given  you;  you  don't  have  to  go  into  the  high 
ways  and  hedges  to  look  for  it.  That  queer 
boy,  Harry  Drinkwater,  gave  me  the  secret  of 
it  first.  I  asked  him  one  day  how  it  was  that, 
in  spite  of  all  his  handicaps,  he  managed  to  get  on 
so  well.  He  said  he  had  only  one  recipe  for 
success,  which  was  wishing  and  watching,  and 
watching  and  wishing.  He  said  there  was  no 
door  that  wouldn't  open  to  you  of  its  own  accord 
if  you  stood  before  it  long  enough  with  that 
Sesame  in  your  heart.  I  remember  his  saying,  too, 
that  in  the  matter  of  work,  desire — desire  that's 
not  wrong,  of  course — was  our  first  point  of  con 
tact  with  the  divine,  since  the  thing  that  we  ur 
gently  wish  to  do  is  the  thing  by  which  we  re- 
express  the  God  who  has  first  expressed  Himself 
in  us.  The  most  important  duty,  then,  is  to  find 

329 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

out  what  we  really  want,  and  then  to  wish  and 
watch.  Most  of  us  don't  know  what  we  want, 
or,  if  we  do,  we're  not  clear  enough  about  it,  and 
so  we  get  lost  in  confusion,  like  travelers  in  a 
swamp.  Of  course  he  said  it  all  much  more 
quaintly  than  I'm  doing  it;  but  that  was  the  gist, 
and  it  helped  to  put  me  into  the  line  of  thought 
in  which  I've — I've  found  content." 

"That  is,  you  analyzed  first  what  it  was  you 
really  wanted  to  do." 

"Exactly;  and  I  discovered  two  things:  first, 
that  I  didn't  want  anything  half  so  much  as  to 
help — I've  told  you  that  before — unless  it  was 
the  happiness  of  the  people  to  whom  I  was  near 
est.  I  found,  too,  that  if  I  began  at  the  beginning 
and  followed  the  line  of  least  resistance  I'd  get 
farther  in  the  end.  Up  to  that  time  I'd  begun 
in  the  middle,  and  so  could  get  neither  backward 
nor  forward,  as  I  used  to  complain  to  you." 

Having  thought  this  over,  I  said: 

"You're  fortunate  in  having  the  people  to 
whom  you're  nearest  close  enough  to  you  for — 
for  daily  intercourse  and  influence." 

There  was  distinct  significance  in  her  response. 

"Perhaps  I'm  fortunate  in  never  having  turned 
my  back  on  them  as  long  as  they  were  in  need  of 
me.  Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  want  a 
home  of  my  own?  Well,  something  kept  me  at 
least  from  that.  Whenever  I  came  face  to  face 
with  doing  what  I've  felt  free  to  do  at  last,  there 
was  always  a  second  thought  that  held  me  back. 
If  Boyd  and  Lulu  had  had  children  it  would  have 

330 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

been  different.  But  Lulu  didn't  want  any  till — 
till  lately,  and  so  I  felt  that  something  was  needed 
to  ease  the  grinding  of  the  wheels  between  them. 
I  did  recognize  that.  But  now  that  theyVe  got 
the  little  boy — " 

"Got  a  little  boy?"  I  said, in  astonishment. 

"Why,  yes.  Didn't  any  one  tell  you?  Two 
weeks  old  to-day,  and  such  a  darling!  One  day 
he  looks  like  Lulu,  and  the  next  like  Boyd,  and 
they're  both  as  happy  as  two  children.  That's 
why  I've  felt  free  to  be  my  own  mistress,  to  this 
extent,  at  least.  Things  do  work  out,  you  know, 
if  you'll  only  give  them  half  a  chance,  and  stop 
fretting.  That's  another  thing,"  she  smiled;  "it 
came  to  me  one  day  in  church  when  they  were 
reading  the  Psalms,  though  I'd  often  heard  the 
words  before  without  paying  them  attention. 
1  Fret  not  thyself,  else  shah  thou  be  moved  to  do  evil' 
I  suppose  people  worried  three  thousand  years 
ago  just  as  we  do  to-day;  and  had  to  be  told  not 
to.  Well,  I've  tried  not  to  fret  myself,  and  I've 
got  on,  oh,  so  much  better." 

She  was  so  serene  that  as  I  passed  my  cup  for 
more  tea  I  ventured  on  something  from  vrhich 
otherwise  I  should  have  shrunk: 

"I'm  a  little  surprised  that  in  your  analysis  of 
the  things  you  really  wanted  you've  forgotten 
the  one  most  people  crave  for  first." 

She  took  this  with  her  customary  simple  di 
rectness. 

"Oh  no,  I  haven't.  It's  only  that  something 
seems  to  have  been  left  out  of  me  that — that  I 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

don't  demand  it  as  much  as  many  other  women; 
and  then — it's  hard  to  put  into  words — the  con 
viction  has  come  to  me  that — that  whenever  I'm 
ready  for  it  I  shall  get  it.  I'm  not  ready  for  it, 
yet."  Her  amber  eyes  rested  on  me  with  the 
utmost  truthfulness.  "It's  odd;  but  I'm  not. 
The  very  fact  that  I  don't  demand  it  yet,  some 
women,  you  know,  are  like  that,  and  I  suppose 
some  men,  but  that  very  fact  shows  that  it's 
wiser  not  to  congest  one's  life  by  tackling  too 
many  things  at  a  time.  The  one  thing  I'm  grow 
ing  certain  of  is  that  it  all  depends  on  oneself  as 
to  whether  or  not  the  windows  of  heaven  are  open 
to  pour  us  out  blessings,  and  that  whatever  I 
want,  within  reason,  I  shall  get  in  the  long 


run." 


It  was  partly  this  theory  of  life,  and  partly 
a  sense  of  assurance  and  relief,  that  led  me  on 
to  talk  of  my  personal  situation.  As  Drinkwater 
had  done,  she  dismissed  my  mental  misfortunes 
as  incidental,  interesting  pathologically,  but  not 
morally  decisive.  As  to  my  return  to  New  York 
after  having  actually  found  my  way  home  I  felt 
obliged  to  give  her  some  explanation.  It  was 
while  I  was  doing  this  that  she  asked,  as  if 
casually: 

"Do  you  like  Colonel  Stroud?" 
"No,"  I  said,  bluntly.     "Do  you?" 
"I  can  see  that  he  has  a  sort  of  fascination 
.  .  .  for    other    women."     She    nodded,    more 
thoughtfully,  "I  don't  trust  him." 
"Neither  do  I." 

332 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"I  thought  not.  That's  what  makes  me 
wonder — " 

She  hesitated  so  long  that  I  was  compelled 
to  say: 

"Wonder,  what?" 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  not  go  on." 

"Please  do." 

"I  only  will  on  condition  that  you  authorize 
me." 

"I  authorize  you  to  say  anything  you  choose." 

"Well,  then,  since  you  don't  trust  him,  I  won 
der  how  you  could  expose  any  woman  to — to  his 
influence." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't.  The — the  events  all  took 
place  while  I  was  away,  and  I've  no  control 
over  them." 

"No  control,  perhaps;  but  there  are  other 
things  in  life  besides  control." 

"I  know  that;  but  what  things,  for  instance, 
do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  lots  of  things."  She  looked  about  the 
room  as  if  not  attaching  much  importance  to 
her  words.  "Love,  for  one." 

"But  in  this  case  love  has  to  be  counted  out." 

"Can  you  ever  count  out  love?  I  thought 
that  was  the  one  permanent  factor  in  existence, 
though  the  skies  were  to  fall." 

"It  may  be  a  permanent  factor,  and  yet  have 
to  remain  in  abeyance." 

She  laughed. 

"Nonsense!  Who  ever  heard  of  love  remain 
ing  in  abeyance?  You  might  as  well  talk  of  fire 

333 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

remaining  in  abeyance  when  it's  raging,  or  water 
when  it's  bursting  a  dam,  or  any  other  element 
in  active  operation.  If  I  loved  any  one,  no 
matter  how  little,  I  should  want  to  save  them 
from  a  man  like  Colonel  Stroud." 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  you'd  been  considered 
guilty  of — " 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter  what  any  one  thinks 
of  so  poor  a  thing  as  oneself?  I  mean  that  one 
self  to  oneself  is  so  very  unimportant." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?" 

"Of  course  I  know  that  there  are  other  points 
of  view,  and  that  from  some  of  them  oneself  to 
oneself  is  the  most  vital  of  all  considerations. 
But  in  the  detail  of  what  other  people  think  of 
one—" 

"Even  when  the  other  people  are  those  of 
whom  you  think  most  in  all  the  world?" 

"Let  us  think  most  of  them  then.  Don't  let 
us  think  most  about  ourselves." 

"Do  you  suppose  I'm  thinking  most  about 
myself  now?  I  assure  you  I'm  not." 

She  laughed  again,  not  lightly,  but  rather 
pitifully. 

"I  must  leave  you  to  judge  of  that." 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  DID  judge  of  it,  all  through  that  spring,  com 
ing  more  and  more  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
was  right.  It  was  not  the  only  occasion  on  which 
Mildred  Averill  and  I  talked  the  matter  over; 
but  it  became  at  last  a  subject  on  which  agreeing 
to  differ  seemed  our  only  course.  The  time  came 
when  I  remembered  with  an  inward  blush  that 
I  had  once  feared  that  this  clear-eyed,  well-poised 
girl,  who  had  really  found  herself,  might  be  in  love 
with  me.  What  her  exact  sentiment  toward  me 
was  I  have  never  been  able  to  name  further  than 
to  put  it  under  the  head  of  a  "deep  interest/' 
Had  circumstances  been  in  our  favor  that  inter 
est  might  at  one  time  have  ripened  into  some 
thing  more;  but  from  that  she  was  saved  by  the 
instinct  which  told  her  that,  in  spite  of  my  asser 
tions,  as  to  which  she  nevertheless  didn't  charge 
me  with  untruth,  I  was  a  married  man. 

One  more  detail  I  must  add  concerning  her. 

On  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  early  May  I  had 
gone  to  her  to  talk  over  the  great  news  of  the  day, 
that  the  peace  terms  had  been  handed  to  the 
enemy  at  Versailles.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  she  was  the  one  person,  outside  my  colleagues 

335 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

in  the  Museum,  with  whom  I  could  discuss  the 
topics  nearest  to  my  heart.  With  Pelly,  Bridget, 
the  Finn,  and  even  with  Miss  Smith,  I  had 
friendly  arguments  as  to  the  League  of  Nations 
and  similar  matters  of  public  concern;  but  they 
rarely  went  beyond  the  catchwords  of  the  news 
papers. 

"My  dear  father,"  Miss  Smith  would  say, 
gently,  "who  was  an  eminent  oculist  in  his  time, 
Doctor  Smith,  you  may  have  heard  of  him,  used 
to  say  that  his  policy  was  to  keep  this  country 
out  of  entangling  alliances.  That  was  his  expres 
sion,  entangling  alliances.  I  always  think  of  it 
when  I  see  foreigners/' 

"From  awl  I  hear/*  Bridget  informed  me,  "this 
here  League  o'  Nations  they  make  so  much  talk 
about  is  on'y  to  help  the  English  to  oppress  Ire 
land." 

Will  it  bring  down  prices?"  the  Finn  demand 
ed,  if  ever  I  spoke  of  it  with  him,  and  when  I 
confessed  that  I  couldn't  be  sure  that  it  would, 
he  dismissed  the  theme  with,  "Then  that's  all 
I  want  to  know." 

"Punk,  I  call  it,"  was  Felly's  verdict,  "unless 
Lloyd  George  is  for  it;  and  whatever  he  says 
goes  with  me." 

This  being  the  scope  of  my  conversations  on 
the  subject  it  became  a  special  pleasure  to  air  my 
opinions  with  one  who,  while  not  always  agreeing 
with  me,  took  in  such  matters  the  same  kind  of 
interest  as  myself. 

We  were,  therefore,  in  what  is  called  the  thick 
336 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

of  it  when  a  shuffling  and  laughing  were  heard 
from  the  hall.  Suspending  our  remarks  to  look 
up  in  curiosity  we  saw  Lydia  come  in  leading 
Drinkwater.  From  the  festive  note  in  their  cos 
tumes  Miss  Averill  leaped  to  a  conclusion. 

"No!"  she  cried,  as  the  two  stood  giggling 
sheepishly  before  her  tea-table.  "You  haven't?" 

"We  haw." 

The  statement  was  his. 

"I  talked  him  into  it,"  Lydia  declared,  laugh 
ingly.  "He  didn't  want  to,  but  I  was  afraid  that 
if  I  didn't  tie  him  by  the  leg  he'd  fly  the  coop." 

"But,"  I  asked,  "what  about  your  great 
career?" 

"Oh,  well,  I've  put  that  off  a  bit.  I  can  always 
take  it  up  again.  Anyhow,  you  never  heard 
of  an  adventuress  who  wasn't  married.  She 
doesn't  have  to  stay  married;  but  a  single  woman 
who's  an  adventuress  gets  nowhere.  The  Rus 
sian  countess  in  'The  Scarlet  Sin*  had  been 
married  twice,  first  to  a  professor — that  'd  be 
Harry — and  then  to  a  count.  I  can  begin  looking 
forward  to  the  count  right  now,  because  Harry 
is  what  you  may  call  a  thing  of  the  past." 

When  they  giggled  themselves  out  again,  to 
go  and  give  the  news  to  some  one  else,  Miss 
Averill  said,  whole-heartedly: 

"Well,  I'm  glad!" 

Thinking  of  Vio  and  Stroud  I  asked  why. 

"Because  Lydia  is  safe  for  a  while  anyhow." 

"Didn't  you  think  she  was  safe  already?" 

"Not  wholly.     There  was  some  one.19 
22  337 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Some  one  she  liked ?" 

"No,  some  one  she  didn't  like.  That  was  the 
funny  part  of  it.  But  about  four  or  five  months 
ago  she  came  to  me  with  so  incoherent  a  tale  that 
I  couldn't  make  anything  out  of  it.  There  was 
a  man,  a  gentleman  she  said  he  was,  who  wanted 
her  to  go  off  with  him;  and  to  save  some  one  else 
she  began  to  think  she  ought  to  do  it.  I  really 
can't  tell  you  what  it  was,  because  I  couldn't  get 
it  straight;  only  there  was  a  wild,  foolish,  lovely 
idea  of  self-sacrifice  in  it,  and  now  it's  over.  He 
won't  get  her;  and  if  ever  any  one  deserved  an 
exquisite  thing  like  her  it's  Harry  Drinkwater. 
He  can't  see  how  pretty  she  is,  of  course;  but  he 
gets  the  essence  of  beauty  that  is  more  than 
physical." 

We  dropped  the  terms  of  peace  and  the  League 
of  Nations  and  frankly  discussed  love.  I  had 
already  told  her  that  for  me,  notwithstanding  all 
the  conditions,  there  was  no  woman  in  the  world 
but  Vio. 

"And  for  me,"  she  laughed,  "there's — there's 
Lohengrin."  My  expression  must  have  betrayed 
my  curiosity,  because  she  went  on:  "Haven't  I 
told  you  that  it's  all  a  matter  for  ourselves 
whether  the  blessings  of  existence  are  ours  or  not; 
and  what  blessing  is  greater  than  a  good  husband 
when  one  wants  one?  When  Elsa  was  in  need 
of  a  defender  she  went  down  on  her  knees,  a 
method  cf  expressing  her  point  of  view,  and  he 
came  right  out  of  the  clouds.  There's  always  a 
Lohfengrin  for  every  woman  born,  and  there's 

338 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

always  an  Elsa  for  every  man,  and  whether  or 
not  they  find  each  other  largely  rests  on  their 
understanding  of  the  source  from  which  Elsas 
and  Lohengrins  come/* 

"And  you're  sure  of  your  own  Lohengrin?" 
She  answered  with  a  laughing  air  of  challenge: 
"Perfectly.     Whenever  I  give  the  right  call 
I  know  he'll  be  on  the  way." 

But  this  optimism  didn't  weigh  with  me. 
Knowing  all  I  did  of  love  and  life,  the  simple 
performance  of  simple  tasks  began  to  seem  to  me 
the  most  satisfying  food  for  men.  From  nearly 
all  of  those  whom  I  have  quoted  I  made  the  syn 
thetic  gleaning  of  bees  in  a  garden  of  flowers, 
building  my  own  little  cell  for  my  soul  and  stor 
ing  it. 

I  needed  such  a  cell.  As  May  passed  and  June 
came  in  there  was  much  in  the  trend  of  public 
life  to  make  those,  who  had  yearned  and  hoped 
and  looked  forward,  cynical.  The  splendid 
spiritual  freedom  for  which  people  had  given  their 
efforts  and  their  sons  was  plainly  not  to  be 
achieved.  If  the  human  race  had  moved  higher 
it  was  not  directly  apparent  at  Versailles  or 
anywhere  else  in  the  world;  while  in  America,  the 
home  of  the  ideal,  the  land  in  which  so  many  of 
the  heart-stirring  watchwords  had  been  coined, 
passion,  selfishness,  distortion,  extortion,  and 
contortion  were  the  chief  signs  of  the  new  times. 
North  of  us  Canada,  hitherto  so  tranquilly  in 
dustrious,  was  threatened  with  internal  con 
vulsion;  south  of  us  Mexico,  which  some  of  us 

339 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

had  hoped  was  pacified,  was  prey  to  new  distress. 
For  me,  to  keep  my  sanity  amid  all  this  conflict 
of  forces,  a  little  secret  temple  of  my  own  became 
a  necessity,  and  to  it  I  retired. 

It  wasn't  much.  Having  built  my  shrine  with 
what  I  had  harvested  from  Drinkwater,  Lydia, 
Mildred  Averill,  and  the  rest,  I  hid  myself 
there  with  some  half-dozen  disciples.  They 
were  Bridget's  boy,  the  Finn's  two  sons,  and 
three  or  four  of  their  chums  whom  they  had 
brought  in.  Not  only  did  their  young  affection 
give  me  something  I  sorely  needed  in  my  inner 
life,  but  I  had  the  hope  that,  building  on  them, 
I  was  doing  something  for  the  future.  Grown 
men  and  women  were  beyond  my  endeavors. 
These  fresh  souls,  with  their  nearness  to  God, 
understood  my  faltering  speech,  which  fell  so 
far  short  of  the  ideas  I  was  trying  to  interpret. 

They  were  simple  ideas,  connected  with  prac 
tical  beauty.  That  is,  with  the  Museum  as  what 
we  called  our  clubhouse,  all  man's  treasures  of 
material  creative  art  were  ours.  These  we  were 
taking  in  their  order,  beginning  with  my  own 
specialty  of  all  things  woven,  from  the  crudest 
specimens  of  ancient  linens  up  to  the  splendors 
of  the  tapestries,  and  going  on  to  kindred  and 
allied  crafts.  Not  only  art  was  involved  in  this, 
but  history,  biography,  travel,  romance,  and 
everything  else  that  adds  drama  to  human  ac 
complishment.  To  me,  with  the  big  void  in  my 
life,  it  was  the  most  nearly  satisfying  thing  I  knew 
to  reveal  to  these  eager  little  minds  something  of 

340 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

the  wonders  with  which  the  world  was  full;  to 
them,  with  their  ugly  homes,  cramped  outlooks, 
and  misshapen  hopes,  it  was,  I  fancy,  much  what 
the  marvels  of  the  next  world  will  be  to  those 
accustomed  to  the  dwarfed  conceptions  of  this. 

Saturday  afternoons  were  the  days  of  our  re 
unions,  and  we  came  to  the  last  in  June.  It  was 
a  fatal  day,  the  28th,  marking  the  fifth  anni 
versary  of  the  tragedy  through  which  the  new 
world  began  to  dissociate  itself  forever  from  the 
old.  As  contemporary  history  was  a  large  part 
of  our  interest,  with  the  development  of  man's 
efforts  stage  by  stage,  the  occasion  naturally 
came  in  for  comment. 

On  that  particular  day  we  were  in  the  great 
room,  which,  as  far  as  I  know,  has  no  rival  in  any 
other  museum  in  the  world,  where  the  whole 
history  of  ceramic  art  is  visually  unfolded  in  order 
from  the  crude,  strong  products  of  the  Han,  Tang, 
and  Sung  dynasties  in  China,  up  through  the 
manifold  efflorescence  of  European  art  to  such 
American  works  as  that  of  Bennington,  Cincin 
nati,  and  Dedham,  which  may  be  the  forerunner 
of  a  new  departure. 

We  had  come  to  that  section  of  the  room  where 
were  displayed  the  first  representative  pieces 
brought  back  from  the  East  by  merchants  and 
ambassadors,  and  so  voyages  of  discovery  were 
in  order.  Marco  Polo,  Vasco  da  Gama  and  the 
Dutch,  English,  and  Portuguese  explorers  had 
been  discussed,  and  I  was  in  the  act  of  giving  to 
my  boys  the  story  of  the  origin  of  delftware  as 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

an  attempt  to  reproduce  in  abundance  what  the 
Oriental  traders  brought  over  only  in  small  quan 
tities.  The  specimens  of  delft  being  on  shelves 
but  little  above  the  floor,!  was  crouched  in  a  half- 
sitting  position,  with  the  lads  hanging  over  my 
shoulders.  Not  till  I  had  finished  this  part  of  my 
exposition  did  I  rise,  to  find  on  turning  that  a  lady 
was  looking  on. 

Recognition  on  my  part  lagged  behind  amaze 
ment.  Tall,  slender,  distinguished,  dressed  in 
black,  and  somewhat  thickly  veiled  for  a  day  in 
June,  it  was  the  sort  of  apparition  to  make  a  man 
doubt  the  accuracy  of  his  senses.  Before  my 
lips  could  frame  a  word  she  held  out  something 
toward  me,  saying  simply: 

"Billy,  I  came  to  bring  you  this." 

The  boys  fell  back,  knowing  by  instinct  that 
the  moment  was  one  of  dramatic  significance  to 
me  and  looking  on  overawed. 

What  I  had  in  my  hand  I  saw  at  once  to  be 
nothing  but  a  copy  of  one  of  the  New  York  papers 
that  appear  in  the  afternoon.  That  it  contained 
some  announcement  affecting  me  went  without 
saying,  and  a  half-dozen  terrors  crowded  into  my 
mind  at  once.  Without  my  knowing  it  she  might 
have  got  a  divorce;  she  might  have  got  a  divorce 
and  remarried;  she  might  have  lost  her  money; 
I  might  have  lost  mine;  some  one  near  to  us 
might  be  dead. 

I  held  the  paper  stupidly,  staring  at  her  through 
the  veil,  and  opening  the  journal  without  seeing 
it.  When  my  eyes  fell  on  the  first  page  it  was 

342 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

entirely  a  white  blankness,  except  for  a  single 
word  in  enormous  letters: 

PEACE! 

My  eyes  lifted  themselves  to  hers;  fell  to  that 
one  word  again;  lifted  themselves  to  hers  once 
more.  She  stood  impassive,  motionless,  waiting. 

"So — so  theyVe  signed  it,"  was  all  I  could  find 
to  stammer  out. 

"Yes;  they've  signed  it.  I — I  thought  you 
might  like  to  know." 

"Of  course."  Further  than  this  superficial 
fact,  I  was  too  dazed  to  go;  but  I  knew  I  must  get 
rid  of  the  boys.  Turning  to  Patsy  Bridget,  I 
said,  "  Patsy,  could  you  take  the  other  boys  home 
and  see  them  safely  to  their  doors?" 

"Sure!"  Patsy  answered,  with  the  confidence 
of  fifteen. 

"Aw,  we  don't  want  no  one  to  take  us  home," 
the  elder  of  the  Finn's  boys  protested.  "Me  and 
me  kid  bruvver  go  all  over  N'York.  Don't  we, 
Broncho?" 

Another  lad  spoke  up. 

"I  come  from  me  aunt's  house  in  Harlem  right 
down  to  East  Thirty-fourth  Street  all  by  meself 
and  me  little  sister." 

It  was  Vio  who  arranged  the  matter  to  every 
one's  satisfaction.  With  her  right  hand  on  one 
boy's  shoulder  and  her  left  on  another's  she  said, 
in  a  tone  of  quiet  authority: 

"You  see,  this  is  the  way  it  is:  The  war  is  over 
at  last.     They've  just  signed  the  peace  treaty, 
and  I've  come  to  tell  Mr.  Harrowby.     But  now 
343 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

that  we've  got  peace  we've  got  to  go  on  fighting, 
only  fighting  in  a  better  way  and  for  better  things. 
Now,  you're  a  little  army,  with  Mr.  Harrowby  as 
your  commander-in-chief,  like  Marshal  Foch. 
But  under  him  you're  all  officers,  according  to 
your  ages.  Patsy  is  the  general,  and  you're  the 
colonel,"  she  continued  to  the  elder  Finn  boy. 

"Aw,  no,  he's  not,  miss,"  one  of  the  other  lads 
declared,  tearfully.  "  I'm  older  'n  him.  He's  only 
twelve  goin'  on  thirteen,  and  I'm  thirteen  goin* 
on  fourteen." 

This,  too,  was  adjusted,  and  with  a  dollar  from 
Vio  for  ice-cream  sodas,  the  general  traped  out, 
followed  by  colonel,  major,  captain,  and  lieuten 
ants,  each  keeping  to  his  rank  by  marching  in 
Indian  file.  I  had  never  before  seen  Vio  in  this 
light,  and  something  new  and  human  that  had 
not  entered  into  our  previous  relations  suddenly 
was  there. 

Left  alone  with  her,  I  was  in  too  great  a  tumult 
of  excitement  to  find  words  for  the  opportunity. 

"How  did  you  know  where  to  find  me?"  was 
the  question  I  asked,  stupidly. 

"Miss  Averill  told  me.  She  said  you'd  be  here 
with  your  boys,  and  she  thought  you'd  told  her 
you'd  be  doing  this  particular  subject.  I  went 
through  some  of  the  other  rooms  first." 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  her." 

"I  didn't  till — till  lately.  I  was  interested 
in  making  her  acquaintance  because  of  things 
Alice  Mountney  said,  and  you  said." 

"What  did  I  say?" 

344 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

"Oh,  nothing  of  much  importance,  except  for 
showing  me  that — that — she  was  the  one." 

"What  one?" 

"The  one  you  spoke  of  ...  the  .  .  .  the  last 
evening.  That's  .  .  .  that's  what  made  me  come 
to  New  York,  Billy,  to  see  if  I  could  do  anything 
...  to  ...  to  help  out." 

"To  help  out  how?" 

"Oh,  Billy,  don't  make  yourself  dull.  You 
know  that  nothing  can  be  done  unless  I,  or  you, 
or  one  of  us,  should  take  the  first  step." 

I  asked,  with  a  casual  intonation: 

"  How's  Stroud?" 

Fire  flashed  right  through  the  thickness  of 
the  veil,  but  she  answered  in  the  tone  I  had 
taken: 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  seen  him  since — 
since  that  girl — " 

"She's  married." 

"Oh,  is  she?     I  hope  it's  to  some  one — " 

"It's  to  some  one  as  true-blue  as  she." 

"She  is  true-blue,  Billy.  I  see  that  now.  She 
— she  must  be  to  have  wanted  to  do  what  she 
did  for  ...  a  woman  like  me,  who — " 

She  took  a  step  or  two  toward  one  of  the  cases, 
where  she  pretended  to  examine  the  luster  of  a 
great  Moorish  plaque. 

"She's  an  erratic  little  thing,"  I  said,  finding 
it  easier  to  talk  of  a  third  person  rather  than  of 
ourselves,  "all  pluck,  and  high  spirit,  and  good 
heart,  harum-scarum,  and  yet  a  great  deal  wiser 
than  you'd  think." 

345 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

She  turned  round  from  the  plaque  without 
coming  nearer  to  me. 

"I  just  want  to  say  that  the  things  she  told  me, 
the  things  she  pretended  to  betray,  were  things 
I  knew  more  or  less  already.  I'd  been  coming 
to  the  same  conclusions  for  myself,  only  I  hadn't 
quite  reached  them.  .  .  .  And  then  you  came 
back,  and  everything  was  so  strange  .  .  .  after 
I'd  been  in  mourning  for  you  .  .  .  and  given 
those  prints  as  a  memorial  in  your  name!  I 
wish — "  I  detected  something  like  a  sob — "I 
wish  you  could  make  some  allowances  for  me, 
Billy." 

The  minute  was  a  hard  one  for  me,  but  I  stood 
my  ground: 

"I  make  all  allowances,  Vio;  I've  no  hard 
feelings  whatever." 

She  advanced  toward  me  by  a  pace. 

"Then  will  you  do  this  for  me?  If  I  can  find 
a  way  to — to  give  you  your  liberty  will  you — will 
you  marry  Mildred  Averill,  and — and  be  happy?" 

Though  my  heart  was  going  wild  I  know  my 
eyes  must  have  been  cold  as  I  said: 

"I  can't  promise  you  that,  Vio,  for  a  double 
reason.  First,  I'm  not  in  love  with  her;  and 
then  she's  not  in  love  with  me." 

"Oh,  but  I  thought  she  was.     Everybody  says 


so." 


"Who's  everybody?" 
"Well— well,  Alice  Mountney." 
"I  can  see  how  Alice  Mountney  might  make 
that  mistake;  but  it  is  a  mistake,  Vio,  and  please 

346 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

let  my  saying  so  convince  you.  I'll  be  quite 
frank  with  you  and  say  that  I  thought  so  once 
myself.  I'll  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  at  one 
time,  if  everything  had  been  different,  it  might 
have  happened.  But — but  everything  was  as 
it  was,  and  so —  Well,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is 
that  there's  nothing  in  it,  and  I  must  beg  you  to 
take  that  as  decisive." 

"Then — then,  who  is  it?" 

"No  one.  I've  found  my  work,  a  very  hum 
ble  work,  as  you've  just  seen." 

"A  very  fine  and  useful  work." 

"I  hope  so;  and  I'm  not — not  unhappy, 
specially." 

She  moved  along  the  line  of  cases,  as  if  care 
lessly  examining  the  contents. 

"What's  that?5'  she  asked,  coming  to  a  pause. 

Obliged  to  go  close  to  her,  I  was  careful  not 
to  touch  so  much  as  the  surface  of  her  clothes. 

"It's  just  a  cup  and  saucer,  Ludwigsburg,  an 
old  Rhine  valley  factory  now  extinct.  They 
liked  those  little  fancy  scenes." 

"It  seems  to  be  a  woman  pleading  with  a  man, 
doesn't  it?" 

"It  looks  like  that.  It  probably  means  noth 
ing  beyond  a  bit  of  decoration." 

"And  he  seems  so  implacable,  while  she's  down 
on  her  knees,  poor  thing!"  She  looked  round  at 
me.  "Are  you  busy  here  still?" 

"Oh,  there  are  always  things  to  do.     Why?" 

"I  thought  you  might  walk  back  to — to  the 
hotel  with  me." 

347 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

I  took  out  my  watch,  though  unable  to  read 
the  time  even  when  I  looked  at  it. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid — " 

"Oh  no,  you're  not."  There  was  a  repetition 
of  the  catch  in  the  tone  that  suggested  a  sob. 
"  Billy,  aren't  we — aren't  we  going  to  be  friends  ?" 

I  couldn't  soften  toward  her.  I  felt  no  springs 
of  forgiveness. 

"Why  should  you  want  to  be  friends  with 
me?" 

"Because  I  can't  help  it,  for  one  thing,"  she 
cried;  "and  for  another — "  Turning  away 
wearily  she  began  to  move  toward  the  door. 
"Of  course  if  you  don't  want  to,  I  can't  urge  it, 
and  so  must  learn  to  get  along  by  myself." 

Something  in  the  last  phrase  prompted  me  to 
say: 

"Is  there  anything  specially  wrong?" 

"No;  only  everything  specially  wrong.  If 
you  had  come  back  to  the  hotel  with  me  I  could 
have  told  you." 

"Can't  you  tell  me  now?  Is  it  about — about 
Stroud?" 

"Oh  no,  Billy.  Can't  you  forget  about  that? 
I  have.  He's  dropped  out  of  my  existence. 
That  was  all  a  mistake,  like  the  other  things." 

"What  other  things?" 

"All  the  other  things."  She  pointed  to  the 
big  word  "PEACE"  staring  at  us  from  a  chair 
to  which  I  had  thrown  the  newspaper.  "Look  at 
that.  Doesn't  it  make  all  the  last  five  years  seem 
unreal,  like  a  nightmare  after  you've  got  up? 

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THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

Well,  that's  the  way  I  feel  now  .  .  .  about 
.  .  .  about — " 

"About  me?" 

"Of  course.  I  never  should  have  thought  it 
at  all,  only  that  Wolf  and  Dick  Stroud,  and  even 
the  military  authorities —  But  at  heart  I  didn't 
believe  them — " 

"Do  you  mean  that — ?" 

She  nodded  without  waiting  for  me  to  finish 
the  question. 

"But  I  want  it  very  plainly,  Vio." 

"I'll  tell  you  as  plainly  as  you  like,  Billy,  but 
— but  not  now.  I'm  too  worried." 

"But  what  about?     Is  it—?" 

"Oh,  everything!"  she  burst  out,  desperately. 
"Money  for  one  thing.  Didn't  you  see  how 
shabby  the  house  was,  and  run  down?"  The 
sobs  began  to  come  freely  now,  and  without  re 
straint.  "And — and  Lulu  Averill  has  a  little 
boy,  a  perfect  darling,  and  our  little  Bobby — " 

"I'll  go  back  with  you  to  the  hotel,"  I  said, 
quietly,  "only,  don't — don't  cry  here,  with  people 
coming  in  and  out." 

She  dried  her  eyes,  drew  down  her  veil,  and 
took  her  sunshade  from  a  corner.  Picking  up 
the  paper  she  had  brought,  I  folded  it  and  slipped 
it  into  my  pocket.  I  began  to  wonder  if  it  might 
not  prove  a  souvenir. 

On  the  way  to  the  main  exit  we  passed  through 
a  corridor  lined  with  cases  of  old  silver. 

"Do  you  think  your  boys  would  like  a  day 
with  those  things?"  she  asked,  with  the  slight 

349 


THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

convulsion  of  her  throat  that  a  child  has  after 
tears. 

"I'm  sure  they  would." 

"I  could — I  could  take  them,  some  day,  when 
you  didn't  want  to  go,  if  you'd  let  me.  It's  one 
of  the  few  things  I  know  something  about." 

"I'm  afraid  it  would  bore  you." 

She  paused  for  just  an  instant.  "Bore  me? 
Billy,  nothing  will  ever  bore  me  again  so  long  as 
you — you  let  me — " 

As  she  could  say  no  more  we  resumed  our  walk. 

Out  in  the  open  a  boy  rushed  up  to  us,  a  Slavic 
creature  with  huge  questioning  eyes. 

"Peace,  mister!  Peace,  miss!  Buy  one!  Great 
historic  'casion!" 

They  were  like  doves,  all  up  and  down  the  ave 
nue,  white,  fluttering,  bearing  the  one  blessed, 
magical  word.  They  were  in  motor-cars,  car 
riages,  and  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses — all  white, 
all  fluttering,  all  blessed,  and  all  magical.  Up 
and  down  and  everywhere  the  cry  burst  from 
hundreds  of  raucous  little  throats: 

"Peace!     Peace!     PEACE!" 

"It's  like  coming  out  into  a  new  world,  isn't 
it?"  I  said. 

"Ifc  is  a  new  world,  for  me.  Do  you  remem 
ber  saying  that  day  when  you  first  came  home 
that  the  new  world  made  the  war?  Now  it's 
made  something  else,  in  which  it  seem:-  to  me 
there'll  be  just  as  much  struggle  called  for,  only 
with  a  difference.  Then  the  hard  things  were 
done  to  break  us  down;  now  they  may  be  just 

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THE  THREAD  OF  FLAME 

as  hard,  only  they'll  be  to  build  us  up.  The 
East  isn't  farther  from  the  West,  is  it,  than  these 
two  motives?  I've  never  wanted  to  build  up 
anything  in  my  life;  but  now  I  feel  as  if — " 

Once  more  we  walked  silently  among  the  doves, 
listening  to  that  throaty,  lusty  cry  that  was  sheer 
music: 

"Peace!     Peace!     PEACE!" 

We  had  come  to  that  avenue  in  the  park  sacred 
to  little  boys  and  girls,  when  she  said: 

"He's  a  darling,  Lulu  AverilFs  baby;  and 
they — quite  understand  each  other — now." 

This  second  reference  prompted  me  to  give 
her  a  long  sidewise  look,  but  she  did  not  return  it. 

"Perhaps—"  I  ventured. 

"Oh,  Billy!" 

It  was  barely  a  sigh,  but  for  the  minute  it  was 
enough  for  me,  as  she  pressed  forward,  with 
veiled  profile  set,  like  one  gazing  into  the  future. 


THE    END 


DEC  21  1932 

MAR  i  6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


